14: There Goes The Neighborhood
by Math Girl
Summary: The team is split, as John makes ready to go to Mars, and Gordon leaves for Europe. Alternate universe, following the events in story 12.
1. Opening Arguments

_The first steps are taken._

There Goes The Neighborhood

1

John never realized how hard McCord had worked to get him approved for the mission. In one of those ubiquitous, vanilla-bland board rooms with the grey-upholstered swivel chairs and acoustic tile ceilings, the battle had been fought, one sunny afternoon..., and won.

Men and women, engineers and scientists in rolled-up sleeves and loosened ties, executive higher-ups in dark suits, and Pete McCord himself, natty as ever in a baseball cap and rainbow suspenders, went a full twelve rounds over John, pulling no punches. The flight surgeon, particularly, had strenuous objections, stating that John Matthew Tracy was too young, untested, and emotionally withdrawn to be a true team player on a long-term mission as sensitive as Ares III. Pete's response was typically blunt, and off-color.

Spitting a huge wad of Juicy Fruit gum into a nearby trash can, he popped in a fresh stick, slapped his hands down upon the long meeting table, and levered himself upright.

"People...," he drawled, shoving his hands into his pockets and rocking back and forth on his heels, "let's cut to the chase, and get home in time for dinner, okay? Look..., I know Tracy's a psychiatrist's wet-dream; he's got more issues than National Geographic... but he's also a certified, goddam _genius._ I've been up with him, Ladies and germs, _four times._ Had everything from the O2, to the potty, break down on us out there, and I can tell you for a fact, the man does _not_ crack under pressure. When the shit hits the fan, and chunks 're filling the air, he flies the bird, and puts her down in one piece. Plus..," And here McCord paused to grin around the room at his gathered listeners, temporarily removing his ball cap to rearrange the strands of sandy red hair clinging to his shiny scalp. "...the guy's a legacy. Ya gotta love the potential free publicity! Think of the built-in news angles."

He arranged his hands as though framing a camera shot, drawing his audience of suits, pocket-protectors and bean counters right into his vision.

"Jeff Tracy, first of the next-wave Apollo astronauts to set foot on the moon... and now his son, John, is poised to do the same in the red dust of mars...! _Damn, _that's got a ring to it! The press 'll eat it up. Guys...," he spread his hands, noting, still, a few dubious expressions, "there is nothing as deadly as being _ignored._ This is WNN, nightly news stuff I'm handing you..., and we've got to have publicity, if we want funding. Go ahead, tell me I'm wrong!"

One of the launch engineers, Laura Brady, nodded sadly.

"The budget cuts can't get much deeper without turning into amputations," she commiserated, pushing her glasses back up the bridge of her nose. Behind her, visible through a long row of windows, tour buses crawled along and astronaut candidates strode around, just as if NASA wasn't being slowly choked to death around them.

"Every available inch of the space craft is already covered with advertising logos, and packed with industrial experiments... Gene, he's right," Laura went on. Around her, the gathered engineers murmured agreement, tired of being asked to produce miracles from next to nothing.

"Anyone that'll get the public's attention, in a good way, _has _to be considered. I vote _yes_."

Gene Porter was the mission director, a man so dedicated, he'd have worked for free. Energetic and kind, he was; with dark hair, a lined face and wistful eyes. Not a tall man, but solid, with a selection of outlandish ties for every occasion. Today's version sported 'Marvin the Martian' in an astonishing variety of poses. Now, he drummed his fingers on the table, already more than half convinced.

"Pete," he began, "You know I trust your judgement... but we can't afford a single mistake. This is a make-or-break mission." His pale blue eyes flashed from the table top to his long-time friend and fishing buddy.

"A month out, six months on-planet, and a month back. No rescue, no resupply, no room for screw ups. We gotta come through with this one, and put someone on Mars, _before_ ESA, or the Japanese... and we'd damn sure better choose _exactly_ the right crew for the job."

Pete nodded briskly, his smile widening.

"Then look no further, Gene, 'cause I've taken the pain out of the process and picked 'em out ahead of time. Yeah... I know there are more experienced pilots... just like I know doctors with more operating time than Linda Bennett... but my gut tells me to go with Tracy, that we're gonna need him."

The room fell silent, only the sounds of the windows rattling in the breeze, the scrape and creak of tossing palm branches, and a chorus of excited grade school students disturbing the air-conditioned peace. Then, Gene glanced around, getting to his feet with a stiffness that he did his best to disguise.

"Okay, then. Cards 're on the table, folks. It's decision time. Do we go with what we 'know'..., or do we listen to Pete's prophetic entrails?"

("They've batted a thousand, so far!" The mission commander put in proudly, grinning again.)

Gene crumpled a sheet of paper, and threw it across the table at his friend.

"Shut up, Pete; you've made your point. Everyone else: What d' you think... Go with Tracy?"

And the votes came back. From engineering, medical, flight and planetary science, one and all voted 'go'.

Gene smiled, reached across, and shook Pete's hand.

"Okey-doke. John Tracy's on board, along with Bennett, Thorpe and Kim. Get your team together, Pete, and let's make this happen."

McCord wrung his friend's hand, the firmness of his grip harking back to their old roommate days, back at the Naval Academy.

"Gentlemen and Ladies," he announced, gap-toothed and crinkle-  
eyed, "You got yourselves some goddam Martian real estate! We're gonna get there, plant the flag and, by God, get back with the goods and the science, guaranteed."

_Tracy Island:_

As for John, himself..., he was stirring up the biggest cup of mixed emotions he'd ever faced. He wanted to go. Hell, _yeah_, he did!

But the thought of telling the others... especially Penny, and his father... dropped something extremely cold and very heavy deep into the pit of his stomach. Pride wouldn't allow him to just write a letter, or leave a message, though. He'd have to do it like a man, face to face. Except that it was so damn hard to think how.

He was at his very favorite spot on the island, a lonely concrete observation deck equipped with a dome-shielded telescope, a comm unit and a cracked stone bench. Other than a few sensor masts, nothing on the island stood higher than he did, now. Beneath him, mountain and trees and surf unfolded themselves like a colored relief map; vegetation skimpier on the northern, rain shadow side of the island, and dense as Everglades marsh grass everywhere else.

The wind tugged and shoved, first flattening the orange jacket to his slender frame, then ballooning it away from him. Deep in thought, John clenched both hands upon the deck's metal guard rail, and stared at the far-off spot where ocean and sky melted together.

He wasn't _quite _alone. Through the observation post's electronic displays and sensor readouts, 5 was ever-present, her constant scans and chip-mediated adjustments as much a part of his environment as the salt air, the wind and the pitiless sun. And... maybe... that was another reason for concern.

Removing his sunglasses, John raised his voice to be heard over the rattle of buffeted nylon, and the hum of vibrating cables. He needn't have bothered. His computer was quite capable of reading his lips, so long as he took care to face the deck's pedestal-mounted comm screen. He said, as slowly as if minting a new language,

"You wouldn't lie to me... would you?"

5 considered the statement, perhaps as long as an attosecond, before responding. She fired an ultrasound beam into his head, stimulating the 'Wernicke's area' of her analog companion's brain, so that he heard a voice.

"John Tracy's most recent statement was not understood. Pause between vocalizations and alignment of facial muscles indicate importance of message, however. Please re-input, using altered format."

_Women. _Couldn't live with 'em... sure as hell couldn't reprogram them. Okay, then; second attempt...

"5, I know what you're technically capable of. If you deemed it safer... more necessary, somehow..., you could feed me any bullshit illusion at all, even Mars... while keeping me in a cell somewhere, hooked up to life support machines, for 'my own good'. I'm not saying that you would... just that you _could. _So..., for peace of mind, I want to hear it from you, that all this is real. That it's actually happening."

Oddly, this time she paused long enough before responding that he actually registered the passage of a few seconds. She considered the matter important enough to manifest herself before him, forming her usual glowing lavender icon. The computer's vaguely humanoid image hovered just off the ground, flickering and sparking quite independently of the wind.

"The cultural set of reasoning analog life forms, of which John Tracy is a member, has a convention." And she held up an 'arm', bent at the 'elbow', forming two projecting 'fingers'. "Scout's honor."

John laughed, feeling suddenly better.

"You're not a Boy Scout, 5, and neither am I."

"Objection received, and comprehended. Another convention located, common to the subset of all possible John Tracys; _I promise_."

This time, she held out a glittering hand, as if desiring to shake on it. He wasn't certain how well physical contact would work out, as the icon was holographic, but assumed that she could easily supply whatever tactile data were required. So, relieved, John accepted the small, slightly tingling 'hand', and gave it a brief, warm clasp.

"Understood, and I won't bring it up again," he told her, wondering just when she'd stopped being an electronic device, and turned into a friend. Then, puffing out a long, gusty breath, he released her 'hand', adding,

"Guess I'd better go 'beard the lion'. Care to calculate the probability that he flat-out refuses permission?"

"Working," she responded, shrinking down to a single lavender pixel that sank through the screen of his wrist comm. As equations and diagrams unfolded in his head, John turned and started back down the rocky path, not _quite _alone.


	2. Chapter 2: Talking it Over

_Family matters, before the big event._

_Opal Girl- Thanks, and hope it does justice to a truly wonderful organization. _

_PS- Some more revisions have been made. (Apologies for the amount of tweaking. Had to get it fixed before I could go on.) _

2

"Pull!" Gordon called out, again. Virgil immediately thumbed the switch, sending two clay pigeons at once whizzing out of the bunkers. Gordon didn't think, barely seemed to react. Keeping his mind as neutral as if he was swimming laps, he brought the piece, a heavy, bolt-action Adsett 12-gauge, up and around. There was an instant... his finger squeezed the trigger before his mind seemed to register the moment... when the pigeons crossed in midair. The shotgun roared, kicking up and back against his left shoulder, and the pigeons disintegrated, blasted apart by an expanding cloud of lead shot. Ten more followed at random intervals, each ending up as a puff of brick-red dust. Like a video game, only better; for he was outdoors and doing, enjoying the sulfurous smell, the thud and boom of the weapon, and the hail of little clay shards that mixed with Virgil's rueful cursing.

Gordon shot back the bolt, ejecting a spent cartridge, unloaded the other one, then turned to face his older brother. Virgil came forward, shaking his head, and reaching for his wallet.

"Damn," he said, laughing quietly. "One hundred... in a _row._ How'd you learn to shoot like that, Tex? And why do I keep falling for these sucker bets?"

Gordon pocketed the fifty that Virgil handed him, smiling triumphantly. There were some things he was very good at. Swimming was one, shooting another.

"Salamanca," he responded. "Quite the lively town, most nights. But y'r bet, I can't answer for. Just generous by nature, I expect."

Virgil sighed, scooping up his own large weapon and ammo box.

"_Still _can't believe that anyone raised in Europe could shoot better than _me."_ Then, indicating the mansion with a jerk of his head, "Supper's probably on, up at the house... but tomorrow we go for 150, and I'll whup your east-coast ass!"

"You're on, then. Tomorrow it is. At this rate, I'll have pocket money enough f'r the entire season, in less than a fortnight."

As they set off along the sunny trail, the big, dark-haired pilot and his smaller, red-headed brother continued heaping insults and challenges upon one another. After the events in Los Angeles that had cost Gordon so much of his last two years, such moments were fragile, and tentative.

Virgil didn't push him. He just stayed close, and let the boy be; ready to talk, go shooting, or catch sorry-ass substitute trout in the big hole below the waterfall, as the case might be. Virgil had never learned how to be subtle, but he knew how to be _there._ He'd learned from Grandad and Scott that, sometimes, the best a man could do was just to show up, and then stick around.

"You'll come watch one or two of the swim meets, then? Time an' business allowin', that is?" Gordon asked him, suddenly.

Light dappling through the leaves, golden as a shower of coins, spotted their heads and faces as they walked. His gun broken, the stock resting along his arm, Virgil looked over and gave his younger brother a swift smile.

"Sure. I can heckle the competition and throw rocks at the Romanian judge with the best of 'em."

"And have me disqualified?" Gordon laughed, feigning outrage. Virgil's presence in the stands, at the World Championships or the Pan American Games, would mean as much to Gordon as their planned visit to Wyoming meant to Virgil. (Only trouble was the horses, but he supposed that if he could just keep the fearsome brutes from snapping at him, or treading on his feet, all would be well.)

The foolishness continued, with Virgil speculating as to just how many drinks he'd have to buy to geta little sympathyfrom the implacable Chinese judge, until well after they'd reached the kitchen table. He bet on seven, but Gordon figured at least twelve, until Grandma shut them both up with a smoking mountain of food.

_The pool deck, a little earlier:_

Alan Tracy was a new man, for two important reasons: he was nearly fifteen now, and feeling every inch the suave sophisticate for having (as far as he was concerned) won the heart of an English princess. On top of all that, he'd grown another inch, and, unless his mirror and questing fingers had lied, there was a bit of blond fuzz on his upper lip. Facial hair, at last!

So, it was with a marked swagger to his step that Alan arrived at the pool deck, looking for Gordon (who had to remain as sleek as a girl, for hydrodynamic reasons). Just to bug his brother, Alan intended to grow a big, handlebar moustache, and curl it at the ends.

...Except that Gordon wasn't _at_ the pool. TinTin was.

Spotting a potential admiring audience, Alan loped on over to her deck chair, struck his best 'muscle-man' pose, and said,

"Hey, there, Beautiful! See anything you like?"

But TinTin didn't react as expected. Instead of melting, she glanced aside, biting her full lower lip. And then, (utter, frozen shock... deep, manhood-shriveling horror) _Penelope _climbed gracefully out of the pool, sleeked back her wet golden hair, and smiled archly.

"No, dear," was her cool response, "I cannot say that I do, although one has to sympathize with your groping attempts at masculinity. Perhaps with a few more years, and the onset of puberty..."

TinTin had actually begun to choke, she was fighting so hard not to laugh. But Alan had another thought, one that hit him even more sickeningly than Lady Penelope's evident contempt.

"Omigosh! I'm _so_ sorry, Lady P! Please, _don't tell him!_ He'll rip me a new... I mean, he'll tear my head off! for real, _I didn't know you were there!" _

Penelope lifted a slim eyebrow, then idly flicked the manicured fingers of one hand at him, saying,

"Shoo! Be off with you. There's a good lad!"

For months afterward, she and TinTin had only to give him a certain amused glance to turn poor Alan red as the main course at a seafood banquet. His only comfort was that Gordon never found out about the humiliating incident (worse, even, than when he'd tried to kiss TinTin), and neither, thank heaven, did John.

...who at that moment, after a shower and clothing change, and a figurative girding-up of the loins, was ready to face his father.

It was a very hard thing, reaching for the handle to the office doors, and harder still to open them. Too late, John realized that he'd forgotten to knock.

Jeff Tracy looked up as the doors swung open, scowling darkly. He was at his desk, in the midst of a critical teleconference. The bickering heads of the American, Asian and African branches were on screen, bidding desperately on the location of a future testing ground, and the airwaves crackled with greed and back-stabbing tension.

It did nothing whatever for Jeff's already black mood that it was John who stepped through the open doors (after he'd left _express_ instructions that he not be disturbed...!)cold and stiff as a bas-relief pharaoh.

"What in the..." Jeff growled, a bit more testily than he'd intended, then started over."I'm busy.What do you want?"

Almost, John turned on his heel and left the room. But they'd covered this scenario, he and 5, and the best strategy for this one was bold-faced confidence, something his father actually respected. So... he squared his shoulders a bit, and snapped back,

"A moment of your valuable time, _Sir_. I'll keep it short. I promise."

Jeff's frown deepened, but he transferred the proceedings to one of his abler vice-presidents, and leaned back in his big leather chair, fingers steepled. He had no idea how badly his tall son (whom he'd once regarded as slinking through life sideways, head down and tail tucked) wanted to bolt from the room. John somehow hid it all; the pounding heart, rapid breathing and cold, knotted stomach.

"I've been selected by NASA to pilot another mission, Sir. They asked, I agreed."

Jeff's expression changed. He and John had only one thing in common, beside blood, but it was a mighty big one thing.

"You have?" His father asked, interested despite himself. They were astronauts, both of them; the one former, the other current. "The moon, again?"

John shook his head, bracing for what he imagined would be a fire storm of angry refusal. Too long, too far away, too risky, etc., etc., _ad infinitum, et praeter._

"Mars," he told his father, the word as toneless and flat on his tongue as it wasn't in his heart.

Jeff actually forgot about the desk. Lunging to his feet and starting eagerly forward, he struck the burled wooden edgeand rebounded, falling back into his chair. An instant later, though, the older man was back up, and going around (he'd have shoveled a tunnel, if he'd had to).

"_Ares III?"_ he inquired, smiling broadly, his brown eyes alight with memory, his deep voice singing with pride. "They've made the selections, already? Damn, that was quick! The seeding's only just started to show some... but what am I talking about?" And he reached out, planting both hands, one on each of John's slim shoulders. "You're... going to Mars!"

He had a thousand questions. How big was the crew? Would they be using the new Jupiter-class spaceship, of the old reliable Andromeda? Who was going to be mission commander? At John's quiet answer to the last question he'd posed, Jeff actually laughed aloud.

"Good ol' Pete! I can't think of anyone I'd rather have in charge of a mission like this one, than Pete McCord! Or..." and something sparkled, briefly, in Jeff Tracy's dark eyes. "...anyone else I'd trust as much to pilot it. Son, I can't think when I've been prouder."

He went to his wall safe, and for the third time in less than five months, took out his heirloom bottle of Coleraine single-malt whiskey.

"I wish I was still in the loop, still young enough to qualify, myself, but _damn,_ it makes me happy to know there's going to be a Tracy on the first manned landing mission to Mars. Here we go, again!"

So saying, Jeff poured out two crystal tumbler's worth of alcohol, profligatein his joy and hot pride. Lifting his glass for a toast, he said hoarsely,

"To the Red Planet, and the best man for the job!"

John touched his glass to his father's, then drank the stuff down, not sure whether it was the whiskey, the words, or the _'told you so'_ pulse at the back of his left wrist that warmed him most.


	3. Chapter 3: Preflight

_To Barb, Agent Five, Opal Girl, Tikatu, Findal and other friends, "Hi!" and "Sorry so slow". I plead team meetings, conferences, a weekly class, lifeand sheer exhaustion..._

_3_

_Last bit before lift off:_

Cindy Taylor could have driven to work (in theory), or taken a cable car, but San Francisco's lovely hills were murder on her inherited heap of a Mini Cooper, and she rather enjoyed the early morning walk.

Without makeup, her dark hair caught back in a plaid 'scrunchy', wearing sweat pants, a tank top and windbreaker, Cindy didn't much resemble what she thought of as her 'broadcast self'. In fact, striding up the long hills and jog-walking down them, she seemed very like any other health-conscious professional, back-packing gear and clothing to the office.

This particular morning was cool and misty, the sun having not yet thrown off the covers. Sea birds mewed plaintively from the ocean, seeming to plead with the occasional, bellowing ship horn. Familiar sounds, but beautiful still, part and parcel of the golden, ocean-side city she'd adopted many years before.

It felt good to be back, though she missed Scott the same way she'd have missed breathing. He and his mixed-up family made it impossible to _quite _go back to business as usual.She was trying, though.

A little over halfway to the office, still in the Outer Sunset, Cindy stopped at an intersection, caught by a sluggish light on Taraval Street. The _'don't walk'_ sign winked redly through tattered mist, so she waited, despite the fact that there wasn't really any traffic. More or less patiently, Cindy used the brief pause to stretch a bit, and catch her breath.

A woman living alone in the city develops certain instincts. When two plainly dressed men approached her, one on either side, Cindy alerted immediately. She stepped away along the sloping sidewalk, out of between them. With newly razor-heightened senses, she noticed street security cameras, a burly young man out walking a string of excited dogs... and a beige sedan rolling quietly up the street toward her position.

The man on the left, swarthy and tense, reached a hand out, attempting to seize her arm. At the same time, all in freeze-frame jerky images, the sedan pulled to a halt directly ahead, and the dog walker picked up his pace, the assorted pets growling and nipping at one another.

Cindy evaded the grab, mostly. A hard hand closed shut on her sleeve, attempting to pull her around. The other man, taller, with a prominent nose and muddy-brown hair, said firmly,

"Get in the car, Ma'am."

"Like hell!" She responded, loudly enough to be picked up by the pole-mounted security monitors.

"Ma'am," he insisted quietly, as his companion maneuvered behind her, "this is an official matter,and I strongly suggest that you..."

Once again, Cindy side-stepped, conscious of a wildly pounding heart and tingling limbs. Adrenaline. With a quick lunge, she stomped her foot down, hard, on the darker man's instep. Something cracked, and he hopped away, hissing between crooked teeth.

"...And _I_ strongly suggest you shove it up your butt!" She replied, reaching inside her jacket for a can of mace. "I'm not going anywhere out of camera range! You want to do something, do it right here in public, or back the hell off, before I kick them up through the roof of your mouth!"

The dogs had begun barking and snarling, straining forward on their leashes; one big, quarrelsome lump with many heads, like Cerberus.

"You okay, Miss?" The young dog walker called out. "Need any help?"

The paler man gave her a single, fuming look, then seized hold of his injured compatriot anddove for the waiting car. From somewhere far away, but wending nearer, a siren started up. Law enforcement, at last.

The sedan squealed off through the fog, vanishing over hill and around a corner before she could quite get the plate number._ CS-22... _something.

Suddenly shaky and weak, Cindy looked around for the dog walker, to thank him, but he, too, had vanished. Nothing to see but the blank stare of darkened shop windows and the slow blush of emerging paint colors. A late reaction hit, and she started to shiver, wondering what would have happened had they managed to wrestle her into the car.

_Tracy Island:_

Saying good-by to the others was harder, and took some doing. Penelope kept him quite busy, seeming determined to wear him out so thoroughly that no one, crew mate, or otherwise, would stir his interest until well after he'd reached Earth again.

Scott was full of advice (very little of it applicable to space flight, but John listened, anyway), andVirgil surprised him with an old-fashioned leather bound journal. Weight was very much a consideration aboard ship; he'd have to sacrifice something else to bring along the journal, but Virgil's gift would not be left behind. From Gordon and Alan he got a gold 'Marvin the Paranoid Android' lapel pin, and a solemn oath to behave themselves until his return... (_"For real!")_

Grandma was her usual busy, no-nonsense self, only just a little more likely to rest a hand on his shoulder as she served up dinner, or needlessly straightened his collar.

"You be sure and eat, out there," the old lady ordered sternly, "and keep your weapon handy. Never know what you might run into."

He promised.

Altogether, the farewells took three days, feeling at once terribly rushed, and unending. Then, when the time came at last, his father flew with him to Cape Kennedy, saying good-by with a handshake and a quick, awkward embrace.

As they stood apart again, the elder Tracy said,

"When you get back, Son, we'll have a lot to talk about."

John nodded.

"Yes, Sir."

And then, he shouldered his carry-on bag and headed for the little terminal. At the door, something made him turn just a bit, looking over one shoulder. His father was still beside the jet, watching, so he lifted a hand.

Jeff Tracy returned his son's wave with a proudsmile, watching until John stepped through the sliding doors, and away.

After that, John's life became much simpler, and laser-focused; prepare for the mission, bond with the rest of the crew, and wait impatiently for launch. There were endless medical, stress and psych tests, and a bout of minor preventative surgery ( just the tonsils- he'd had his appendix removed in childhood). There were release forms to fill out, official pictures to take, and procedure manuals to memorize. Simulator flight time, equipment handling and physical training took up the rest of what often seemed to be 18-hour days. Despite Grandma's words, John would have forgotten to eat, if his meals hadn't been scheduled.

He and the rest of the crew, when not sequestered at the beach house, ended up doing a great many interviews and press conferences. Elementary schools, Rotary Club meetings, congress... seemingly every and anyone with an agenda and a checkbook. So, it was with genuine relief that he attended the final press event, at three weeks to launch, in one of the Cape's larger auditoriums.

The Ares III crew were seated at a long table, Pete first, then Roger Thorpe, Linda Bennett, Kim Cho and John. Behind them hung a blue curtain emblazoned with the NASA logo, and a giant mock-up of their mission patch.

(Pete's suggestion for the motto, "There goes the neighborhood", had been rejected in favor of "To boldly go", but they still used the other in private.)

Gene Porter was present, together with a number of silver-tongued NASA spokesmen. The press sat in theatre-style seats, about half-filling the big room. Not a bad turnout, all things considered. Cindy Taylor was there, too, which surprised him just a bit; she wasn't WNN's usual space program correspondent..., but perhaps it had been a slow news day.

All the camera lights exacerbated a dull tension headache, which John did his best to hide, looking positive, bold and motivated; or trying to. The questions flew thick and fast.

To Roger: "So, what's it like, representing most of Earth's population on this mission?"

Captain Roger Thorpe was a US Marine, a descendent of the great Chesty Puller, and so culturally braided that he usually just wrote "All of the above" on racial census forms. The big, swarthy young man leaned forward, grinning broadly.

"As living proof that we _can _'all just get along', I'm real proud to be bringing the world, and the Corps, to Mars."

The assembled reporters chuckled, more cameras flashed, and then Newsweek had a question for Linda Bennett.

"Dr. Bennett," the smartly dressed reporter began, her expression thin-lipped and self righteous, "What do you think of the requirement that female crew members receive contraceptive shots whose long-term effects on a woman's reproductive system aren't fully understood?"

Linda was brown-haired and slim, in her early forties, and she'd long since given up marriage and family in pursuit of her career; space medicine. She didn't much like holier-than-thou puppy feminists taking NASA to task over the harsh realities faced by a professional female astronaut, though.

"Ms..., Jennings..., is it? Right. Like it or not, Ms. Jennings, the trip to Mars and back is _extremely _long, and well out of Earth's magnetic field. Each one of us," and she gazed around at the rest of the crew, frowning just a bit, "understands the risks posed by radiation while en route, and on Mars itself, which has no protective field. We could _all_ be at higher risk of cancer, or future sterility. Nobody knows, yet. I've taken the contraceptive, just like Dr. Kim, because I don't want to be bothered with a menstrual period, or _any _possibility of a hazardous, unwanted pregnancy. I'm a practical woman, Ms. Jennings, or I wouldn't be here. I accept the sacrifices, and the risks, with a clear conscience. Hope that answers your question."

Newsweek sat down, looking decidedly vexed. Evidently, she'd hoped for a bit more pathos. The Discovery Channel had sent a representative, who directed his question at Kim Cho.

"Dr. Kim," he asked, after being acknowledged by the NASA rep, "as the team's exo-biologist, what will you be looking for on Mars? And what do you think of the anti-seeding, 'Keep Mars for the Martians' controversy?"

Kim (her surname, actually, though to American ears it sounded better than 'Cho', so that's what they called her) was petite; a second-generation Korean-American working on her third PhD, with black hair, tilted eyes and a constant, vague frown. She nodded slightly, saying,

"I will use established protocols to search for native life forms, below ground, and at the site of the nearest methane seeps. My time will be fully occupied, as there are more places to search, Sir, than there is time to accomplish all that I wish to do. To your other question, I can only say that humanity must ultimately expand beyond Earth, and that Mars, as the next likely step, is being prepared for our arrival. Everything possible will be done to ensure that our cyanobacteria will not drive their Martian counterparts to extinction."

Then, Dr. Kim signaled the end of her response with another brief nod, looking down at her folded hands. Now Cindywaved ahand, and was recognized. She stood, looked at John, and fired off a truly startling broadside.

"Thanks, Floyd. My question is directed at John Tracy. Mr. Tracy, you're... what..? 23 years old? A civilian, with only a few satellite repair and moon station resupply missions under your belt, and yet you were selected for Ares III over _hundreds_ of more qualified candidates. Did your father's wealth and business contacts influence NASA's choice, do you think?"

He hadn't expected that; in fact, perhaps out of kindly conspiracy, no one had _ever_ suggested the possibility that Jeff Tracy had bought his son's way aboard. Pete glanced over, more than ready to handle the question, but John waved him back.

"Miss Taylor, this is a vital mission," he said. "A great deal of money, and four other lives, hinge on the capabilities of each one of us. Everyone here is qualified. Even me."

"I did some digging," Cindy went on, ignoring the NASA spokesman's efforts to signal someone else, "...and I discovered that your father's 'charitable donations' to NASA have more than doubled since you were named to the crew. That's sheer coincidence, is it..., Mr. Tracy?"

He responded coldly, in a voice just loud enough to be heard over the speculative buzz now filling the auditorium,

"Raytheon, General Dynamics, Lockheed-Martin and Tracy Aerospace between them account for over 93 percent of the Jupiter 4 spacecraft, Ms. Taylor, and they all hope to make good on their investments. _Everyone's _donations have increased. It would be the depth of stupidity to underfund the mission, or to send along unqualified personnel, family connections, or not."

Their gazes locked, blue-violet striking sparks from dark brown, and then Cindy smiled and sat down again, saying,

"Thank you, Mr. Tracy, for clearing that up."

At the post-conference 'meet and greet', Cindy Taylor was decidedly persona non grata, as isolated as an antibiotic disk in a petri plate full of _enterobacter._ Kind of amusing, actually. Anywhere she moved, people got out of her way, until she finally approached John.

Like the others, he was wearing the royal blue astronaut jump suit with his name plate, the American flag, NASA and mission patches sewn on, and some kind of gold lapel pin.

He'd been hanging back, in a dimmer, quieter section of the big banqueting room, looking somewhat tired. Knowing him as she did, Cindy suspected that he'd got a headache, and fished around in her shoulder bag for some Excedrin. Rather to her surprise, he accepted the pills, with a laconic,

"Thanks."

"You weren't offended, I hope?" She asked, after he'd caged a glass of ice water to swallow them with. "I was just trying to stir things up. Controversy and questions equal coverage, you know."

John shrugged, and Cindy felt instantly sorry for anyone who actually tried loving him, for having such a distant, unyielding god at the center of one's universe would be cold and lonely, indeed.

"You were doing your job," he replied, evenly.

"...Which I'm glad to get back to, finally." Cindy told him, with a tentative smile. "It's been great.., except for missing Scott, and the rest of you guys. Don't take this the wrong way," she added quietly, "but that's the main reason I showed up tonight. It's kind of nice to see family."

He smiled back, the effect like that of a light house beam flashing briefly through darkness and fog. Before the expression had quite faded, he said,

"I know what you mean."

Impulsively, Cindy then told him what had happened to her back in San Francisco.

"...the one guy said it was an 'official matter', which makes me think WorldGov, but they could've been after ransom, or some sick thrills, for all I know."

She'd filled out a police report, of course, but hadn't wanted to give Scott's paranoia any further ammunition. John shook his head.

"Damn. What a time to be leaving the planet. I'm pretty certain Scott's already done it, but I'll call in, anyway, to make sure you're under Gordon-type surveillance."

"That's a relief," she replied. "I kind of thought that the 'dog walker' might have been one of those operatives your father keeps talking about; not just because he vanished neat and tidy, or because I didn't recognize him... San Francisco's a crowded place... but people don't usually walk pets far from home, and none of the dogs were familiar. Not only that, but they kept snapping at each other, like they weren't used to being leashed together."

John cocked a blond eyebrow.

"Good reasoning, and you're probably right. I'll ask around."

"Well," Cindy began, having spotted Pete McCord on his way over (the mission commander had just noticed his pilot apparently being cornered by the room's most alarming reporter, and he'd decided to take action.) "I guess I'll let you go, John. Oh, what the hell...,"

Stepping forward, she kissed his cheek.

"...good luck, and come back safe. I promise coverage out the ass."

He glanced down over one shoulder, then back again, utterly stone-faced.

"Not my best side, actually. I've always preferred my left profile."

Cindy laughed a little.

"I'll keep that in mind. Tell ' Poppa Bear' I didn't mean any harm."

And, with that, Cindy scooted off before 'Hurricane Pete' made landfall. On the way out, she stopped at a Space Center gift shop and bought a little gold bracelet charm in the shape of the Jupiter 4 space craft. It had no gadgetry, but it belonged there anyway. Whatever happened next, as a rather icy, sarcastic friend, John Tracy had earned a spot in her heart alongside his brothers. By launch time, three weeks later, she'd had it soldered on, to hang glistening in the fiery South Florida sun as she shaded her eyes and cheered the spaceship's departure.


	4. Chapter 4: T Minus 10 seconds

_Another re-edit, sorry. Thanks, all for the kind comments. They are valued._

4

_Cape Kennedy:_

To prevent last-minute infections, they'd been kept in clean room isolation the last three weeks, permitted only prison-type contact with friends and family. Plexiglass and wall comms separated them from the people they loved, and potentially harmful germs. Everyone else who approached the crew wore clean suits, white caps and masks.

Their launch window was fairly small, for Mars wasn't a willing target. Half again as far away from the sun as Earth, and moving along at considerable speed, the little red world could not be aimed at directly, but had to be 'led', the way a hunter after grouse or pheasant would place his shot ahead of a fleeing bird. The equations and plotting were complex, and mind-numbingly exact. A single misplaced decimal might have put them millions of miles off course, and there were no islands or foreign shores to wash up on; just empty space and a cold, lingering death.

On the bright side, they had a human pilot, and weren't entirely dependent on the figures streaming off the navigation computer. Should something appear amiss, John could override the computer's flawed decision, execute a few burns, and put them back on course. In theory, at least.

The day of the launch, the crew were awakened at three-thirty AM. They were fed a hearty breakfast, which Pete, Roger and Linda polished off with gusto. Kim Cho and John picked at their steak and eggs without visible enthusiasm, too keyed up to eat.

Then came the fun part: after a last-minute briefing and a bit of a send-off ceremony, they were hooked up to various portable monitors, given 'Maximum Absorbency Garments' to put on, and then assisted into their many-layered launch survival suits. These last weren't meant for space walking. They would only inflate if the ship suffered a catastrophic loss of cabin pressure, or if the crew were forced to eject at high altitude. Nevertheless, donning monitor patches, diaper, skin-tight neoprene and gore-tex body suits, followed by the protective red oversuit, then gloves, boots and helmet was a bit of a process, requiring nearly a NASCAR pit crew for each astronaut.

Pete joked through the whole thing, claiming that his mother had prepared him similarly for the bus stop in Saginaw, Michigan. John recalled the deep, bitter cold of Wyoming, and winced appreciatively. Back then, he'd been stuffed into nearly as many layers, himself... without the MAG, parachute, survival pack and life vest, of course. But then, Burlington Jr. High School hadn't been quite so far away, or so hard to get to.

The helmet locking into his suit's neck ring gave him a weirdly isolated, deep-sea diver feeling. In certain lights, he could see his own reflection from the curving glass, and his breathing seemed suddenly very loud. He tested his comm, receiving answers from Pete, Linda, Roger and Kim that sounded as if they were right by his ear rather than half a room away.

"Hey, Guys," Pete laughed, "Your noses itching? 'Cause mine sure is. _Damn, _a scratch 'd feel good right now, wouldn't it?"

From one and all (even the reserved and proper Kim) came a mock-  
aggravated chorus of, "Shut up, Pete!"

Then the oxygen cut on, whispering into his helmet during a brief systems check, and John said good-by to Earth. Not without difficulty, he put aside thoughts of his family to bond with his team, giving himself totally over to the task at hand, and to Mars.

_Elsewhere:_

Probably, there had never been a more securely defended space shot. International Rescue had a generous handful of operatives among the scientists and executives at NASA, just as they did in many of the world's national militias.

With the Agency's tacit consent, Scott sat with Alan in Thunderbird 1, hovering high overhead at the blue-black edge of space. Thunderbird 2, with Virgil and Brains aboard, circled below the spaceship's planned launch path, ready to lend a hand should the craft experience an in-flight emergency. Once or twice, Virgil had matched speeds with a plummeting jet liner, sliding just beneath to slow the aircraft's fatal descent. The life saving trick had worked well before, and he was more than ready to use it again.

Far below, under a hundred feet of roiling ocean, Gordon waited in Thunderbird 4, all the while very much hoping that his services would not be required. Using a comm buoy, he kept in touch with Scott and Virgil, listening to the countdown clock with one ear, and to his smuggled passenger with the other.

TinTin's presence made what would otherwise have been a tense, fingernails-on-chalkboard wait a great deal more bearable. She found absolutely everything exciting, and her hasty dives, whenever the comm screen flashed to life, made it very difficult for Gordon to keep a straight face. In short, whether perched on the arm of his chair, or hidden beneath the instrument panel, finger pressed to her lips, TinTin brightened and warmed the waterbird's dim little cockpit.

Out at the Cape, meanwhile, in the nearest viewing stand, Jeff Tracy awaited the launch with his mother, his ex-wife, and Lady Penelope. Cindy was there, as well; not on the job, this time, but as a friend of the family. Jeff had ignored the irritating young woman after a single, hard glance, but grandmother patted the metal bleacher to her left, indicating that Cindy was welcome, so she sat down to wait with the others. She wasn't much the praying sort, but Grandma Tracy had the matter in hand, her gnarled fingers sliding across the crystal beads of a rosary, her lips moving in constant, silent conversation with God.Cindy wasn't disposed to laugh, thinking, "_After all, any port in a storm_," and, "..._need all the help we can get_." The day was humid, and blistering hot, with a gusty wind just shy of scrub-speed, but not for anything would Cindy have given up her spot to seek shelter.

_The Launch pad:_

A bit later, carrying temporary life support packs, the crew walked from the transport bus to the white room, last stop before boarding _Endurance._ (The name had been chosen, after much debate, for the courage, perseverance and teamwork shown by Sir Ernest Shackleton and his crew of explorers).

_Endurance_ was a space plane, rather than a rocket or old-style shuttle. Modular, she was constructed to take off like an airplane, orbiting the Earth many times at increasingly higher altitudes to build up the speed and momentum needed to reach the moon station. There she'd drop off her spent fuel tanks and aerodynamic mid-section, and be mated to the huge, powerful engines that would see her to Mars and back. It was a beautiful design, the Earth-side assembly reminding John of Thunderbird 2, but sleeker, with canard-tipped delta wings, a pearl grey hull and more sharply pointed nose. Corporate logos, too, but John focused past them.

Fellow astronauts, reporters and well-wishers cheered them alongtheir way, taking pictures and calling out encouragement. Pete and Roger worked the crowd like Hollywood stars, waving and grinning, but the women were more restrained, and John actually had to be prodded before he got his head out of the memorized checklists and remembered to smile. In one particular image, which Grandma Tracy printed out and framed, he had exactly the same, slightly guilty, look he'd worn when caught at four years old climbing out the window to set a rooftop 'reindeer trap'.

In the white room, smiling engineers made a few last adjustments, then admitted them to the ship through a forward airlock. Pete was the last to step in, giving the world a final, cheery wave before the hatch thudded shut, and latched. The white room then detached and pulled slowly away, folding up on itself like a wheeled accordion

Inside the ship he was all business, taking a seat on the flight deck beside John, and connecting all his hoses to life support. Together, they worked their way through what seemed like a solid hour of pre-flight checks and run-ups, testing and re-testing every failsafe, redundant system aboard ship. Behind them, the others strapped in for the long wait.

NASA never did anything in a hurry; experience had taught them that it was always the least likely, _'Yeah..., like that'll ever happen!' _scenario that would rise up to bite you on the butt. So, they tested it all, one system at a time. Five could have done it in seconds (and did, after John secretly up-loaded her), but procedures had to be followed, despite the rampant 'go fever' gripping everyone on board.

At _last, _Mission Control, Pete McCord and _Endurance_ herselfagreed.

"_Endurance, _you are go for launch. Repeat, go for launch!"

And the countdown began.

_At the edge of space:_

Aboard Thunderbird 1, Scott didn't like what his long distance scanner was showing him. Getting Alan's attention (Brains had fitted the cockpit out with a second seat), he keyed in a higher magnification, saying,

"What do you make of _that?"_

Alan craned past his older brother for a better look at the comm screen. He saw a dark van, a motor boat, and three armed men with what looked like field glasses and some sort of big, green-metal tube.

"Uh..., some folks parked out by an old boat slip, I guess...," he mused, a sudden frown marring his baby-soft features. "They sure don't look like fishermen, though. What's that guy got..? Some kind of shoulder-rocket, or something?"

"Don't know," Scott grunted, arming his Bird's lasers, "But he isn't getting the chance to demonstrate. Keep an eye on him, while I call local law enforcement. If he twitches, fire."

Alan's sky blue eyes grew very wide.

"We're not gonna, like... I mean, it won't...?"

Scott shook his head, but his expression was hard.

"I've cycled back the setting. It'll get his attention, but he'll most likely survive." And then, because Alan still seemed concerned and reluctant, "Anti-gov terrorists don't play, Alan, and neither do I. You thought this was a joyride? If that bunch down there are what I think they are, they'll blow John and the rest of the crew out of the sky without a second thought, and stand there, cheering the fireworks."

Alan nodded. Swallowing hard, he lined up the sights and kept his finger on the firing stud, waiting intently while Scott called his brothers, and the local security force. For a long time afterward, there was no sound in the cockpit but comm chatter, and the soft thrum of Thunderbird 1's throttled-back engines.

Virgil took the alert in stride. Nodding grimly at Scott's transmitted image, he replied,

"Want me to go buzz them? I can get within a hundred yards, then drop the EM cloak; put a crimp in their plans, and a smear in their shorts, guaranteed."

Scott snorted, a brief smile flickering across his tense face.

"Hold that thought, Virge, and get as close as you can, while still inside the flight path. We might just pay a social call, at that."

"FAB, Scott. On my way."

Turning to the engineer strapped in beside him, Virgil said, "Hang on, Brains. You're about to see what this girl can do."

Hackenbacker managed a single, queasy nod, and began patting his pockets for another Dramamine tablet.

"Eh- FAB," he said. Some days, the life of a two-fisted, fightin' man of science wasn't all it was cracked up to be.

Gordon, though he seemed distracted at first, was equally ready to go.

"An inlet, y' say?" he inquired, already punching in coordinates, "How deep?"

"According to the latest soundings, just deep enough for you to block the mouth," Scott replied. "Law enforcement are on their way, but it never hurts to be careful."

"No panic, Scott," Gordon replied, sending the boxy little sub into a steep dive and northward turn. "We..., that is..., _I've_ got this. I'll throw 'em a bit of a surprise party, if they try t' break for open water."

His brother's image nodded.

"Right. Keep to cover, though, and stay safe."

Aboard _Endurance, _John was surrounded by a galaxy of indicator lights, gauges, and instruments, his hands firm on the yoke and throttle. Through the forward window, the metal ramp seemed to stretch into deep blue infinity, something of a cross between the tall rocket gantries of old, and a runway. The occasional heron soared by, blithely unaware that the monster at the bottom of the gantry, quiet since being wheeled out of the Vehicle Assembly Building, was about to join them in the air.

He counted silently along with the launch clock, triggering ignition at _'10'._ The big Jupiter 4 spaceship waited, poised at the end of her rail, engines coming to slow, ground-shaking life. Big as they were, powered by an incredibly explosive mixture of liquid hydrogen, oxygen and powdered aluminum-13, they had to be kept many miles away from the buildings and crowd.

_...All indicators green, and the warm throb at his left wrist still repeating their prearranged signal; morse code for 'A-OK'..._

Beside him, Pete said, the grin fully audible in his transmitted voice,

"Time to light the fuse and do this, baby. We got places to be, and Martians to see."

In the stands, Grandma had stopped praying. Instead, she took Cindy's hand, squeezing it tightly as the numbers ticked off, and the distant spaceship began to shake itself awake.

"_10... 9... 8... 7... 6..."_

Squinting through sun glare and heat wiggles, she shaded her eyes with the hand not holding Cindy's. Like the rest of the crowd, they were on their feet, whispering along with Mission Control's dry, calm voice,

"_..5...4...3...,"_

The ship hurtled along the gantry-ramp, seeming conscious of her own ferocious power as she made ready to burst from Earth. The noise, even at so great a distance, was deafening.

"_...2...1..."_

Gathering speed, she lifted, spurning contact with the dust and rock of her birth.

"_...0..."_

_Endurance _thundered into the air, vaulting up and forward on twin spears of sun-like flame.

"We have lift off! Ladies and gentlemen, we have lift off of the spaceship _Endurance, _destination, Mars."

Screams and cheers erupted from the stands, from the hundreds of thousands of people who'd gathered at the Space Center to watch, and from a billion living rooms, bars and public squares around the world, anywhere someone had a comm or TV set.

Victoria Tracy sagged between Jeff and Cindy, watching tearfully as the spaceship dwindled to a comet-like spark. To the rest of the world, _Endurance _might have held humanity's pride and future, but to Victoria, it contained nothing more precious than her grandson. Jeff embraced her. If she hadn't known better, she'd have thought he was crying.

At Mission Control, Gene grinned around at all the flying paper and whooping flight engineers, straightening his "Starship Enterprise" tie as he prepared to hand _Endurance _off to Houston.

_Thunderbird 1:_

Something sparkled from below, a laser-sighted rocket launcher tracking _Endurance _across the sky.

"Fire!" Scott growled, but Alan had already hit the button. At nearly the same instant, Thunderbird 2 seemed to materialize from thin air, the roaring shock of her passage flattening everyone in the boat, while 4 rose from the depths to block the inlet, dripping algae and slimy green water. The would-be saboteurs never had a chance. Their stories, when the police hauled them off at last, battered, burnt and gibbering, were as entertaining as they were far-fetched.

_Endurance:_

The Ares III crew knew none of this. Seven miles per second... that's what they had to have, approximately, to escape Earth's gravity well. Ramp, launch site and space complex, all flashed back and away as the big spaceship blasted into the air. Under John's hands she felt eager and powerful, like a nervous race horse. He couldn't let her out all the way, though, not until they'd gained 60,000 feet.

As the Air Force chase planes slipped into place beside them, he silently rattled off, word for word, the relevant page of the procedure manual, watching his instruments while Pete kept a casual hand by the abort switch. There was so much vibration and noise, the gut-slamming force of her acceleration was so great, that it skirted the ragged edge of human tolerance. Thus, the centrifuge training. Over a hundred such simulations made it just barely possible to keep functioning, now.

35,000 feet, and Florida was over the horizon and long gone. Nothing but Atlantic and sky, and the fast approaching African coast. The chase planes, on full burn, could no longer keep up. Signaling 'thumbs up'

through their canopies, the pilots dropped back, and headed for home.

40,000 feet. They'd long since broken the sound barrier, were starting their second orbit.

50,000... John made ready to feed organically stabilized aluminum-13 powder into the ravenous engines, where the volcanic heat would burn away the powder's coating and trigger a second, violent acceleration.

"Hold on...," he told the others, fighting grimly for enough wind to speak, "here comes... the good part..."

60,000 feet. A sparkling torrent of aluminum roared into the engines, caught, and exploded with such force that the ship's momentum nearly doubled. The crew's suits, responding to input from their physical monitors, inflated around legs and lower torso to force blood up toward heart and brain. Even so, Roger and Kim Cho lost consciousness. Linda browned out for a few moments, as did Pete. John had logged far more flight time than NASA was officially aware of. He didn't pass out, but his vision shrank to a red-veined tunnel, and each breath became a desperate, gasping battle. There was worse to come.

Seventy-five miles up, about the fourth time they'd circled the Earth, John and Pete together keyed in the nuclear engines. The radioactive firestorm accelerated them yet again, just as the last of the rocket fuel burned off. A giant baseball bat, swinging up from beneath and smashing them against their seat straps, sent _Endurance _sling-shoting away from Earth and out into space. Blue turned to black through the windows, the stars burning pure, hard and white-hot beyond. At last, free of Earth's gravity well, the pain and pressure eased, replaced by a free-floating, 'which way is up?' peace (and a little nausea). They'd done it. Step one on a very long list, checked off.

Before he responded to Houston, Pete removed his helmet, unhooked his hoses, grinned over at John and said,

"Was it good for you, too?"

John shrugged and smiled, blue eyes never leaving his readouts.

"I've had better," he allowed.

McCord chuckled, unstrapping to float beside the seat.

"Damn, you remind me of your father!" He said, "Only funnier. Okay, I'm gonna head back and get started on the 'to do' list. You keep it straight and level up here."

The pilot nodded and went back to work, answering a host of queries from the Houston and moon-based computers about his polar coordinates, velocity and flight angle.

Meanwhile, thrilled andgroggy, the mission specialists behind them doffed their own helmets and gloves, watching as the discarded articles went pirouetting off through the air. Sort of like the 'vomit comet', only the micro-gravity would continue until they reached the moon, over 240,000 miles away.

Already very far behind, Scott called,

"Base from Thunderbird 1; she's away." Adding softly, "Good luck, John. Take care."


	5. Chapter 5: H2O

_Oops! Bit of an innumeracy/ continuity problem! Editing time, again..._

5

The look on the faces of the trapped saboteurs kept returning to TinTin. She wasn't a mean-spirited girl, but their mingled shock, incredulity and bug-eyed horror had tickled her, just the same. Fire from the sky, a giant green UFO, and the Creature from the Black Lagoon 'd had quite an effect.

Gordon (an excellent shot, anyway, but downright outstanding with TinTin watching) had pistol-herded the five men into a tight group, then fired a gas grenade. Sixty seconds later, the mangrove-lined inlet with its crumbling boat slip resounded to the grunting snores of five lightly-toasted thugs.

"Is it safe to just leave them, do you think?" TinTin asked, as her friend climbed back into his Bird's interior, through the upper hatch. "What if they should wake?"

Gordon dropped to the deck, removing the dive mask he'd worn to disguise his features.

"Security forces 're on their way," he responded, accepting her brief hug. "And Scott's lasered th' hell out of their engines. They'd not get far, Angel, trust me."

TinTin nodded, stepping aside to let Gordon (fourth born, red-headed and... well, accident-prone) return to his seat. Following him, she leaned over the back of the chair to watch as he started up the little sub, and began backing her out of the swampy cove. Soon enough, they'd plunged below the weedy surface and were underway, at speeds that would have given the World Navy spitting fits.

"We're t' be picked up about two-hundred kilometers away, in open water," he confided, looking up at her, over one neoprene-clad shoulder. "I'll have t' go forward with th' others, then; it's expected, but I'll find a pretext t' come back an' get you out, once we've landed. Meantime, there's water and biscuits in the second storage locker. Good enough?" She'd been after him for days to help her sneak along on a mission, having tired of waiting for an official chance that seemed unlikely _ever _to come.

"Of course, Mon Couer, and merci mille fois, for the opportunity."

Even though she'd had to remain hidden through all the excitement, TinTin had felt almost a part of the team.

"No bother, I enjoyed havin' you aboard." Gordon replied, with an easy smile. He was, and forever remained, one of her closest comrades. Easy-going, high spirited and bold, but with a deep gash in his memories that she'd had to help him mend, and conceal.

...And there was nothing he wouldn't do for her, in return.

"Feel like havin' a go?" he asked, indicating the sub's controls. Excitedly, TinTin nodded, changing places with Gordon so that she was now in the padded pilot's seat.

Something strange happened when she touched the plane and rudder controls. Standing beside her friend, looking out through the wide steel-glass view screen, she'd seen the green water slide by, turbid and textured as lentil soup. Now, through the contact of her palms on the metal control levers, she _felt _it. Warm,close waters slipped and eddied past her ticklish sides, while a chilly cross-current rushed by, just beneath her belly.

Gasping, TinTin let go of the controls, and looked up, her expression at once accusing, exasperated, and amazed. Gordon's answering grin was quite mischievous.

"But, how...?" She began, throttling the urge to punch him.

"Ace, isn't it?" he laughed, tapping one of the control levers. "New feature. Your engineer friend's been busy plantin' sensors all over th' hull; temperature, pressure, that sort of thing..., and he's routed th' data up through th' control system. Any bare-handed contact 'll feed the sensations straight to th' pilot. Took a bit of gettin' used to, just at first, but I've got accustomed."

Actually, he loved it; Thunderbird 4 was now less of a craft than an extension of himself, allowing Gordon to instantly sense when he'd got too deep, or into dangerously hot or contaminated waters. (So much for the sensible reasons; mostly, it was just cool.)

TinTin 'drove' to their pick up site, relinquishing control when Thunderbird 2 rippled into appearance before them, hanging over the water with a conveyor ramp extending down to the choppy waves. This was another new feature- after Scott's painfully wrenched back, no more long drops, or violent 'sky hook' pickups.

The girl hid herself beneath the control panel again, smothering a laugh when Gordon hit the wrong key and got Scott, rather than Virgil.

"Umm..., Thunderbird 1, from Thunderbird 4... I'm at th' rendezvous site."

Scott's dark brows lifted.

"I know," he replied. "Shadowbot hides you from everyone _else_, remember?" Then, his violet-blue eyes narrowing, Scott peered suspiciously past his younger brother, attempting to see further into the cockpit. "Everything okay?" he asked.

An abrupt, terrible worry came over him, that one of the saboteurs had somehow gotten aboard, and was holding Gordon at gunpoint; maybe planning to hijack Thunderbird 2. Gordon's evasive reply...,

"Couldn't be better. Really."

...didn't help matters. It wasn't their pre-arranged trouble signal ('All quiet on the western front'), but _something_ was definitely up. On a sudden hunch, Scott triggered a quick scan of the sub's interior. What he learned caused his face to harden suddenly, mouth settling into a grim line. He said nothing, though. Not just then.

As Alan chattered away over his shoulder, regaling Gordon with _his _side of their recent adventure, Scott went back to piloting his Bird. ... but there 'd be hell to pay, later.

With the swift manipulation of a few controls, Gordon converted his Seabird to jet-hovercraft mode, raising her clear of the turbulent green Atlantic on a cushion of hissing air. Piezoelectric ceramics in her engines and hull converted the resultant vibration to heat, making the whole process blessedly smooth and quiet, if a bit warm.

"Permission t' board?" Gordon playfully asked, once he'd gotten Alan off the line. His brown-eyed older brother, in fine spirits after John's successful launch, played along.

"Sure...," Virgil smiled. "After you go through customs, and fill out the paperwork. And if I find anything you forgot to declare, I'm tossing you back."

"Just a few illegal immigrants and exotic plant species, Virgil. No panic."

And with that, Gordon throttled forward, sending the yellow sub skating across the water and onto its big sister's ramp. There, the conveyor beams locked on, drawing Thunderbird 4 safely within. Mission accomplished, time to go home.

He was pushed back into his seat by the steep angle of ascent, TinTin nearly tumbling out from under the instrument panel. Through the view screen, bright, wave-splintered sunlight and blue skies gave way to a massive, shady green belly crossed by undulating bands of reflected light. Then an opening, black as a cave mouth, into which Thunderbird 4 slid like a bullet into its chamber. The ramp retracted and the sub was reoriented, spun about by conveyor beams so that she was once more facing forward and locked into 'firing position'. Moments later, the pod door clanged shut, plunging the submarine and her passengers into stark red dimness.

Suddenly jet-lag exhausted, Gordon thanked his brother and shut off the comm, then handed TinTin up out of her hiding place.

"Thank you, truly," the beautiful Malaysian girl said again, full of genuine wonder, and delight. Quick as a hummingbird, she gave him a darting little kiss upon the cheek, which he returned, like a gentleman, upon her forehead.


	6. Chapter 6: The Moon

_A first stop. _

6

There were beacons and Navistar satellites, allowing John Tracyto plot and fly a fairly direct course to the distant moon. Fairly, because the geosynchronous ring, at 42,164 km, was nearly as crowded with orbiting jetsam as the higher graveyard ring, and had to be _very _cautiously threaded. Once these obstacles had been passed, though, it was more or less smooth sailing.

Thing about spaceflight was, once set on course, you'd keep going forever, provided nothing got in the way. No wind resistance, and, therefore, no real need for aerodynamics, or constant adjustments. _'Set it, and forget it'_, usually. But, John remained in his seat, anyway; determined to keep an eye on things.

While he used _Endurance's_ fusion-powered thrusters to bring the girl into line, Roger drifted up to the right seat, braked himself with a hand to the headrest, and hauled himself down. (He'd finished being sick, and was ready to deploy 'Scooter', the ship's pint-sized, tethered hull camera.)

"All set?" He asked John.

"Good to go," the pilot responded, double-entering the last leg of their flight path. They'd reach the moon in seven hours, barring misadventure.

"Hey, Pete!" The big Marine called over one shoulder. "I'm ready with Scooter! Wanna man the camera?"

He was the crew's mechanic, field engineer and construction expert, the one usually chosen to work external contraptions such as the loading arm and hull cam, but they'd all rehearsed each other's tasks a hundred times, and could pinch-hit at need.

"Yeah! Gimme a sec...,"

The sandy-haired mission commander handed himself rapidly across the flight deck, halting by a port-side comm station. "Engine scan checks out, and Linda n' Kim' re working the bio-sensors. Let 'er rip."

In space, for the most part, Commander McCord was the consummate professional, reserving the jokes for those rare moments of calm. As Roger opened Scooter's outer hatch, using joystick controls and gas-jet thrusters to maneuver the little robot out of its bay, Pete glanced forward.

"How's it going up there, Tracy?"

"Green across the board," John replied, or thought he had.

"English, please!" McCord corrected good-naturedly. "No hablo lower Slamdunkian."

Sometimes, if he was very deeply distracted, John would rattle off a response in whatever language first presented itself. Basque, that time.

"I said: Green across the board, Pete. We'll be in by 1830."

"Long as I get my beauty sleep, the details are negotiable...," McCord responded. "Okay, Thorpe, slow and easy... Work him around the landing gear bay. Damn...! Looks like we scratched the paint job. Hold up...! Back again, thirty centimeters, and magnify. Gimme 5X."

Something had caught his eye; a possible breach in the tightly riveted outer hull.

Roger thumbed the joystick back just a little, and keyed up a higher magnification, watching on his own little screen what Scooter was transmitting to Pete. Tiny jets of compressed gas brought the robot around on its tether, and a stroke to the touch screen changed focus. Pete stared for a bit, then puffed out a gusty, relieved sigh.

"False alarm," he said. "Looks like we've got some carbonization around one of the control surfaces, though. Who wants to get out there with a sponge and bucket?"

Not surprisingly, there were no takers.

"Spit and polish," McCord lectured them all, watching closely as _Endurance's _hull rolled slowly by on his comm screen. "That's what this unit lacks! Why, when I was a baby astronaut in the Apollo Program, I scrubbed hulls, uphill, in the snow, both ways, and I _liked_ it!"

It took a further four hours, but at last the inspection was complete, with only a single patch-up required. Besides imaging the spacecraft, Scooter could fire a stream of quick setting crystal adhesive, strong enough to seal shut an incipient hull breach. This had been a small one, micro-meteorite damage, possibly, or a bird strike. Kennedy Space Center was a wildlife sanctuary, after all, and pelicans were slow fliers.

Linda soon finished up the med-scans, and had advice for everyone.

"Pete, you're over-caffeinated; no more java for you, and that's a medical _order, _like it or not" He didn't, but nobody argued with the ship's doctor, by long tradition. Willowy and short, the brunettephysician looked like a child in her bulky red survival suit, but her firmness of purpose was well known, and much respected. Turning to frown at the overly-slim pilot, she went on.

"John, your blood sugar's low (yours, too, Cho.) Quit skipping meals! Try _feeding_ the butterflies, and maybe they'll go away."

Both of them promptly received a sticky-sweet food bar and energy drink, though neither really felt like eating. In John's case, that weirdly disorienting 'top of the roller coaster' feeling tended to kill his desire for food. Mostly, though- like Dr. Kim- he just kept forgetting.

"Quit grinning, Roger," the doctor told Cpt. Thorpe, gesturing at the Marine with her free hand, while clinging fast to a strap with the other. From his perspective, she was floating sideways, which gave the whole lecture a somewhat surreal quality. _"You _need to get more sleep! Stop trying to look macho, and take a pill, if you have to, but get some rest where it'll do you good, _not_ over the instrument panel, in the middle of a crucial maneuver. Got it?"

"Yes, _Ma'am._"

Linda had her own ways of handling big, tough, he-men, and had been selected for the mission for her absolute fearlessness in the face of alpha-male chest beating.

The moon station was located toward the far north of the pock-marked little world, in an area that received nearly constant sunlight. Early prospectors ( his father's mission, in fact) had found water ice in great quantities beneath the gritty dust of Peary Crater. This, then, was the site of the International Moon Station. A modest little place, mostly underground; with three working hangars, a huddle of domed green houses, acres-wide solar panels, and a crew of twenty-five offbeat scientists.

Hurtling through space at speeds that would have cindered them in any kind of an atmosphere, _Endurance _and her crew shot toward the moon. At first small and silver as a nickle, it ballooned in the forward view screen, turning a grim, sepulchral grey, blotched here and there with dark beds of ancient lava, and the stark, shadowed rims of deep craters. Vast, pale, ejecta blankets gave evidence to the horrifying force with which those craters had been gouged out. Like an old bombing range, the remains of past violence were literally everywhere.

The moon, then; beautiful, harsh and cold. Where a single, small mistake would kill herfoolish explorers, who nevertheless couldn't stay away.

...And if you'd ever stood on the Mountains of Eternal Light, staring at a fragile crescent Earth that you could cover with a spread hand, you'd know why. 240,000 miles away, you finally got the big picture.

"Moon Station, this is _Endurance,"_ John called over the comm, some three hours later, "requesting permission to land."

The response was swift, and cheerful. A man's slightly staticky voice came back,

"_Endurance, _IMS. Permission granted, and welcome! Use hangar 34-B, please, on heading 88.6 degrees N latitude, 33.0 degrees E longitude, 25 degrees co-longitude."

John acknowledged the greeting and directions, then punched in the complicated series of rocket burns that would put them over the American hangar. They were headed north, about as close to the pole as it was possible to get, and their orientation had changed. No longer arrowing _at_ the moon, they were now zipping silently along above its craggy surface. Mountains, plains and craters shot by beneath them, bleak and brown and sere, the diamond-hard line between shadow and light as sharp as if drawn with a straightedge. Above, there was only velvet-black, star-peppered darkness; a hard andfrigid, unforgiving void.

He rolled the ship a bit, just enough to orient her properly for landing. Lost a little forward momentum in the process, though not enough. The rest would require reverse-thrusters to bleed off, a process he'd simulated so often, he could do it drugged, sick, or injured. Just in case.

Everyone aboard was suited up and strapped in, again, with life support hoses connected, and helmets sealed. Safety, not just first, but _always_.

At last, they reached Peary Crater. It was quite big, 45 miles in diameter, with the Moon Station's silvery domes, flashing beacons and landing guides tucked in just under the saw-toothed northern rim.

As they neared their flag-painted target, one of several giant metal trapdoors on the crater floor, John fired thrusters 1 & 2 for sixty seconds, halting their forward momentum.

Pete watched the ground through _Endurance's_ lower camera array, meanwhile, and called out occasional instructions.

"Initiate burn on thrusters 3 & 4... five seconds from... _mark._ Watch your drift, Tracy... over to the left a little... that's it... doors 're opening. Drop the landing gear."

The massive steel trapdoor split down its length like a huge, square-toothed mouth. Light streamed from between the hangar's jaws, painting the ship's undercarriage a soft, sparking gold.

John brought _Endurance _lower, settling her within the yawning cavity like an elevator car descending a rocky shaft. Green guide lights pointed their way to a luminous target circle on the distant concrete floor.

Overhead, the doors were already grinding shut, eerily silent in this cold, airless cavern. He executed another burn, longer, this time, causing the space plane to halt a few feet above the ground. When _Endurance's_ lower thrusters cut off, the ship settled onto her four stubby legs at the exact center of the painted circle. Abruptly, he became aware of gravity, again, and of the simple joy of a seat pushing back against him.

"Touch down...," Pete was saying, to John and far-off Houston, "...and landing. Good job! Initiating post-flight shut down procedures."

The overhead doors clamped and sealed, the huge teeth interlocking like a crocodile's snaggled jaws. Then, an enormous pump groaned to life, and air began hissing into the hangar. Dark rock and concrete, a galaxy of blinking panel lights, and great, gasket-sealed doors surrounded them. Nor was that all. About 150 feet straight ahead, some 20 feet up the rock wall, the hangar attendant waved at them through a warmly-lit window. Pete grinned, and waved back.

A sign, _"America welcomes YOU!" _flickered and sparked beneath the window. Beside it, an intermittent _"Please Wait" _signal competed for attention with a video-looped greeting from President Rand.

John hadn't voted in the last election (he detested politics), and was too busy with the shut down checklist to pay attention, anyway, so Madeleine Rand's message went almost entirely unnoticed. (Something about bold steps into the future...)

Finally, the red _"Please Wait_" sign sputtered off, replaced a few moments later by the emerald gleam of the _"Hangar Ready" _signal. Atmosphere and pressure within the rocky cavern were now close to Earth-normal, and it was safe to disembark... Or would be, after they'd berthed.

The circular landing pad shuddered and, with all the ponderous majesty of an ankylosaur bringing its deadly tail around to meet the snapping teeth of a predator, it began to rotate. Not a speedy process, by any means. John had visuals of harnessed titans blindly turning some immense, rusted gear shaft. But, all he said was,

"Something needs oiling." For, the mechanism's sublunar screech and groan were audible even through rock, hull and helmet.

"Yup," Pete agreed, with a tired smile, "and Station Authority 'll get _right_ on that, after they install the tennis courts and snack bar."

In other words, _'don't hold your breath.'_

An hour later, pointed in the right direction, and ratcheted into a big maintenance bay, they were free to un-helm and disembark. _Deja vu, all over again._

With a sense of deep well-being, John stepped out through the hatch after Pete, the ladies, and Roger, to find that nothing much had changed.

Dim lighting..., tall, spindly cranes..., gunpowder-y, 'fried-rock' smell..., chilly air..., omnipresent brown dust..., and a crowd of grubby, friendly scientists.

It felt good to be back.


	7. Chapter 7: Women

7

_Thunderbird 4:_

He tried, because one must. One plunged into the water, instead of standing at the block, and swam to win, every time, or why bother?

Bringing a hand to the side of her face, he touched his mouth, very gently, to hers. The kiss felt warm and soft and electric, and her thoughts, brushing against his, were like the bubbles in victory champagne, or sunlight off water. But, it brought understanding, as well, of two very important things. And what he did next... and what he _didn't_ do... made all the difference in the world.

_Tracy Island:_

Later, back at the noisy underground hangar complex, Scott struck like a cyclone; fast and hard. Waving the others on up to the office, he jerked a thumb at Gordon, indicating that his younger brother was to stay back. When Virgil, Alan and Brains had cleared the area, Scott rounded on the teenager, snapping,

"You've got about ten seconds, mister, to tell me _what the hell_ you think you were doing, sneaking TinTin along on a dangerous mission!"

Gordon didn't say the first thing that came to his head, or even the second (wisely), but he didn't take the matter very seriously, either.

"Relax, Grandad. She came along f'r th' practice. No harm, no foul. She had a good time, an' helped out a bit. Where's the issue?"

In the hangar's grim, fluorescent lighting, Scott's blue eyes narrowed, actually seeming to darken. Jaw clenched, heavy brows drawing together, he looked ready to explode. Around them, the thump and hum of maintenance machinery started up, as the various craft were coddled and attended to.

"_Issue? _I'll tell you what the issue is! What would've happened if there had been an emergency, and you'd had to rescue John, and the rest of the crew? Or if the gunmen had gotten past you, and into 4? _What would have happened to TinTin?" _

"Nothin'," Gordon replied stubbornly, "Because she'd have taken care of herself, _and _helped out with th' situation. She's not a damn infant, Scott. F'r heaven's sake, she's older than Alan, an' _he's _allowed t'..."

But the team leader cut him off, rigid with shock, and disapproval.

"TinTin's readiness is not for you, or her, or even me to decide, Gordon! It's between Kyrano, and dad. And, you will _by God_ do things by the book, with proper authorization, or I'll see to it that you sit out the next five missions!"

He might have been bluffing. With Alan returning to school in Los Angeles the next week, and John off to Mars, the team was going to be awfully short-handed. Still...

"I'm sorry, Scott. Won't happen again, my word on it." Not for anything would Gordon have gotten the girl into trouble by letting on that she'd pestered him into all this. "I wasn't thinkin'."

Scott appeared to relax a bit, but he still had something on his mind. Looking directly into the teenager's hazel eyes, he said,

"Please tell me... that nothing _happened._ That your 'good time' didn't include anything potentially _dangerous."_

Gordon blinked. He had to remind himself that Scott was his brother, and had a right to ask such questions. Otherwise, he'd have punched him. Lowering his gaze, the young aquanaut said,

"No. Nothin' like that." And he added, heavily, "I'm not th' one she fancies."

Scott's expression changed. Perhaps more than Gordon realized, he understood. All at once, he clapped a hand to his younger brother's shoulder, saying,

"Well... there'll be others. The thing to remember is, don't get yourself into a position where you're thinking with the wrong body parts."

Gordon, torn between humiliation and laughter, couldn't quite believe how much Scott sounded like his coach. But his brother continued, quite seriously,

"Girls are going to start offering themselves to you, Gordon, if they haven't already. Just remember that each of those bodies is attached to a heart and mind, and be man enough to stand by what you've done."

It was rather awkward, getting a _'life, sex and everything'_ lecture from Scott, but better than being shouted at, so Gordon merely nodded.

"Right, then," his oldest brother concluded, evidently satisfied with the interview. "Topic closed. But, tell TinTin for me that it _never _happens again. Period."

The faintest memory occurred to him, of a heavily-sedated Scott ordering him to bring a girl aboard Thunderbird 2, but it trailed off, lost in the tangled, 'burnt spot' that he now reflexively avoided prodding. So, Gordon nodded again, and kept his mouth shut.

"Good man." With another hearty clap to the shoulder, Scott turned for the stairs. "Get her out, then, and let's get moving, before Virgil sends a search party."

_Beneath Peary Crater:_

There was a different walk, on the moon. Suited up, on the surface, you sort of hopped; but below ground, within the tight confines of the station, you learned to shuffle, unless cracking your head on the ceiling was a source of continual delight. One-sixth gravity had a way of making itself felt.

Other Moon Station safety tips ( "always keep your survival suit handy", "maintain clear access to the airlocks" and "know your emergency escape rendezvous spot") were almost as quickly internalized. 'Dead' was a state with far too many swift, messy inception points, and the moon offered few second chances. Admonishing placards were everywhere; like the dust, the life support system's reedy hiss, and the subtle rumble of robot mining equipment. You got used to it, and you stayed alert.

John and the rest of the crew received a hearty welcome. The moon station folk didn't get out much, were pretty nearly germ-free themselves, and as starved for contact as stranded islanders. Needless to say, they made rather a party of anything new.

Over the scheduled stopover, John and Roger would handle _Endurance's_ reconfiguration, while Cho and Linda donned mechanical power suits to load supplies, and Pete coordinated. First, though, there wastime to change, and shower. Low pressure and lukewarm, but you didn't have to vacuum the water off of yourself, either.

John quite enjoyed his, despite 5's sudden appearance (it was one of the few spots where she could address him in private). Sensitive to his feelings, she manifested herself in the sealed shower alcove as a simple orb of lavender energy, but her tone was sharp, and vexed.

"John Tracy, there is too little processing power within the _Endurance Vessel's_ slave system to sustain proper cognitive function." Then, reaching for a more organic term, she added, "The on-board system is 'cramped'."

She had a point. There were video games back on Earth with more processing power. He was immediately distracted, though, by something else. Pausing in mid-soap (mild and organic; the station air and water filters couldn't handle complex detergent molecules), he said,

"You changed your voice." For, the delicate British accent had vanished. She hardly sounded like Penelope, now, at all.

"Probable consequence of reduced hard drive and system power," she replied testily, coming back to the point, as she hung sparking and pulsing before him in the misty, droplet-filled air.

"Maybe so," he responded with a sigh, finishing up the business at hand. Then, "What about parallel processing?"

"Explain."

The moon station's computer provided more room for thought, but still left her rather constricted. Shrugging, John cut off the spattering water and reached for a towel.

"Why not link with your equivalents across the nearest few dimensions? Don't know if it's even possible, but..."

"Working."

His computer fell silent, then winked out like a guttering candle flame. Not unusual. She did that, sometimes, when faced with a particularly thorny and memory-eating problem. Deciding to give her a little compiling space, John got out of the shower, re-dressed himself in a basic lunar survival suit, hung the requisite helmet from his equipment belt, and left the bathroom.

There was a triple-layered, steel-glass window set in the rock wall outside. Through it, beyond the harshly lit brown desert, he could see a curving, blue and white arc. The slender young man paused a moment, just looking. From a distance, this way, with all the fluctuations and chaos smoothed out, the Earth appeared strangely serene. Only on-planet did you smell the burning, hear the shouts, the gunfire, the despair and the hatred. And he wondered... was it possible to avoid exporting all that to Mars?

"You miss her?" Someone asked. Pete, pinkly fresh from his own recent scrubbing. There were so many answers to that question that John hardly knew where to begin. He settled at last for,

"More than I expected to."

"Don't let it get to you, Tracy," the older man smiled. "Three days from now, you'll be too busy to think, and then back on the other side before you know what happened. Like running across the freeway, dodging traffic."

Despite himself, John had to laugh.

"Um... I've never really tried that," he admitted, running a hand through his blond hair.

"Timid, huh?" McCord joked, smiling. "Don't worry..., we'll fix that."

Then Roger sauntered up, arranging the top of his 'high and tight' with a plastic comb. The girls, who always fussed more and took longer about bathing themselves, would be awhile, yet.

"Anybody else hungry?" The Marine inquired, grinning broadly. "I could eat anything not freeze dried, microwaved, or out of a plastic bag."

John snorted, but Pete returned the combat engineer's grin with a slight, rueful head shake.

" 'Fraid you're outta luck, then, Thorpe. It's 'all of the above' stew, tonight, I'm told. But...!" The red-haired mission commander held up a forefinger, "If I remember correctly, Phil keeps a few cold beers stashed away for special occasions. Only one apiece, though," he hastened to add. "Alcohol in low gravity has some weird effects."

Kim Cho and Linda appeared at last, from the opposite end of the corridor. Automatically and unconsciously, postures straightened, shoulders went back, and voices deepened. Just like alcohol, women had weird effects (even with damp, pony-tailed hair, no makeup and baggy survival suits).

Together, talking shop and mission, the commander, engineer, doctor, biologist and pilot headed off along the low, dusty tunnel, thinking all that lay ahead was a welcoming banquet.


	8. Chapter 8: All at once

8

The debriefing went well, as such things go. Scott ran a tight, to-the-point meeting, handing out praise and constructive criticism with equal justice.

"It's like this, guys... and TinTin...," he said, at the very last, leaning on the edge of Jeff's desk, "Things are going to get pretty rough. John's away, and even with that entangled what-ever-it-is comm system...,"

"Entangled ph- photon encryption," Hackenbacker put in, hands in his pockets. The skinny engineer looked deeply tired, but managed a pale smile, anyway. "S- spooky action at, ah... at a distance, Scott. We can c- communicate with J- John at better than, ah... than light speed, by manipulating entangled g- gauge bosons." Then, at the other men's blank, uncomprehending silence (TinTin got it), "...Messenger p-particles!"

Scott winced, resettling himself on the desk edge. His right leg was falling asleep.

"I'm just a pilot, Brains. I press buttons and pull triggers. Save the physics for John, who... like I was saying... isn't exactly out of touch, but definitely a noncombatant. School's starting up for Alan, in a couple of weeks, too, so the rest of us are going to have to pull together to get the job done. Dad 'll help out when he can."

Virgil reached over and gave his big brother's arm an affectionate pat.

"No problem, Scott. We're..." _A team,_ he'd been about to say, "... a _family._ We've pulled double shifts before, we can do it again."

"I got a better idea," Alan cut in, lower lip beginning a slow, stubborn outward creep. "How 'bout, like, home-schooling me? Right here. There's computers, and the internet, and I can always call _'He Who Knows Everything'.._.," The boy pointed up at the frescoed ceiling, indicating their absent brother. "And, hey, I can get 'D's just as easy here, as in the classroom, right?"

Scott opened his mouth to refuse, then reconsidered. If nothing else, the Island was definitely more secure than L.A.

"That's up to Dad, Alan. I'll make the suggestion, though. Having you close to home would sure take some of the pressure off."

Said Gordon, before he could talk himself out of it,

"I might give this season a miss, under the circumstances."

This time, though, Scott shook his head and smiled.

"Thanks for the offer, Gordon, but _no_. I wouldn't take the World Championships away from you anymore than I'd take Mars away from John." He jerked his head at their blond younger brother, adding, "Alan isn't giving anything up... _trust me." _

Now he turned to regard the girl, who'd been awfully still, and silent.

"TinTin..., I'll talk to Dad. Maybe we can make something happen. No promises, but I'll try."

She nodded, biting her full lower lip to hide a smile, and darting excited looks at Gordon and Alan. Demure and obedient, she reminded herself, _demure and obedient!_

"Great. Turn in, and get some sleep, everybody. I'll take the desk, till Father gets back. ...And have Kyrano bring up some coffee please, somebody."

It was going to be a long watch.

Later that morning, after Jeff had flown in with Grandma and Gennine, Alan huddled with Gordon and TinTin over Wedgewood bowls of sugary breakfast cereal. Eating so fast that the milk dripped down his chin, the younger boy said,

"Hey, here's a plan: how 'bout we celebrate, and go to Tahiti for the day? TinTin can shop, and do chick stuff, while you and me go surfing, Gordon. What d' you say?"

TinTin stiffened.

"I do not, Mon Enfant, do 'chick stuff'! And _you _spend more time shopping, both of you, for those awful contest shirts!" (35 to 6 in favor of Gordon, and still counting) Re-gathering herself, the girl said haughtily, "I will snorkel."

"I'll dive," Gordon decided aloud, buttering yet another slice of toast. _"Then _we c'n head f'r Teahupoo, an' go surfing, th' lot of us."

Alan grumped, but went along.

"Fine! But don't, like, hang all over me, okay?" He told the girl. "The babes must be allowed to flock in."

TinTin rolled her eyes, and Gordon threw a slice of toast, and thus, in their usual dignified fashion, the matter was settled.

_More or less meanwhile:_

Gennine approached her former husband, in one of those terribly rare moments when he was doing nothing whatever but standing on the office balcony, a drink in hand, staring out to sea. He looked, just then, a lot less 'Captain of Industry' than 'lonely old man'.

Jeff set his drink down and straightened at her approach. He smelled of 'Old Spice' and cigarettes and morning sun, and his pale blue shirt was unbuttoned a few notches. His iron grey hair hadn't been pomaded for once, and it lay in a natural, lank fall across his forehead. Like John's. He'd taken off his blazer, and the red tie lay crumpled like a discarded noose, on a little glass-topped table.

She was over it, though, and had been for a long, long time. No matter _what_ Grandma said.

"I guess you've won," she told him, voice rough with barely caged tears. "Now he wants to be schooled here, even. No reason to come back to Los Angeles at all, now... unless I can manage to get trapped in a mudslide, or something!"

The last thing in the world Jeff needed just then was an argument. Looking at the barely composed woman with whom he'd shared a bed, a few splintered, angry years, and a son, he sighed. Wearing her blonde hair back in a stylish French braid, in one of those loose, floaty dresses she favored, she was just like Lucinda... done subtly wrong.

"You could stay," he offered, quietly. "It's a big house, and I'm not here all that often. You wouldn't have to see me, if you didn't want to. Just Alan, and Gordon."

She hugged herself, fighting emotion with more resolve than Jeff would have credited.

"I have my job," she replied. "The new Sheraton still needs its inner spaces and energies h-harmoniously aligned."

He looked at her, shaking his head.

"Work can be mighty cold comfort, Jenny, when that's all you have left." He glanced back out to sea. "I've been trying, here and there, to hook myself back into their lives again... to rejoin the family, but it hasn't been easy. They haven't rejected me outright, not even John..., and I've tried to work from home more, but a monster like Tracy Aerospace needs constant attention, and balls-to-the-wall energy."

"You could hand it over to Scott," Gennine suggested cautiously, stepping closer. Very few of her ideas, since the first couple, had met with anything but scorn.

He slumped a little, a study in tired and lost, then turned and squinted at the horizon.

"I've thought about it... but why would I want to curse him, like that? He's taken on too much responsibility, as it is. He's a good man, Jenny. They all are. And I'm an exhausted one."

She came over to stand beside him by the balcony rail. They didn't touch, but for the first time in a long time... they weren't quite apart, either.

"You're making progress, Jeff... and they love you more than you realize. It's not the money that keeps them here, or the adventure. They want to please you. They want to make you proud."

"You think so?"

The question, unguarded, and from the heart, made her smile.

"I do."

_San Francisco:_

A little earlier, Cindy had arrived at her cubicle, full of details and commentary to add to all the launch footage. She intended to do a series of stories, covering the Ares III mission from start to finish... if Jake agreed.

Gruff and unpredictable, her boss could be balky about letting her take on special assignments, but Cindy felt sure she'd broken enough lead stories to have earned a little leeway. Maybe. (If all else failed, there remained threats and bribery, voodoo dolls, drugs in his coffee...)

Her little workspace, with its computer station, doodle pad and grey cloth walls, was an island of peace amid the noise, bustle and confusion of a busy station. Preening news anchors, fellow reporters, cameramen and scurrying interns sped from research department, to equipment, to make-up, to the dismal little snack bar, and back again. Every so often, Jake Hall put his shiny head out the double doors of his office, to shout something pithy and alarming into the general chaos. Cindy ignored him, settling into her squeaky chair with a long, tired sigh.

The 'walls' that divided her eight square feet from everyone else's were covered in tacked up pictures, bumper stickers and college banners; USC and UCLA, where she'd earned her bachelor's and master's degrees. She picked things up, and set them down again, hands on the familiar, while her heart yearned for the absent. Story of her life.

She'd been to see her father that morning, at his room in the nursing home. He hadn't recognized her. Bart Taylor, the police chief... the big, laughing, fighter who'd held his adopted baby girlupside-down to let her walk on the ceiling, was gone. In his own way, as dead as his socialite wife, Marcy. All that remained was a dribbling shell.

Why the hell she bothered to visit, Cindy had no idea. Stupid, loyal, or both. But..., they'd rescued her, he and Marcy, from a bleak orphanage in war-ravaged Estonia. Three years old, wearing diapers and stuck in a metal crib, she'd been able to reach out with nothing but her eyes, but they'd noticed and picked her up, anyway. So..., yeah. She kept visiting.

Melinda Charles suddenly whipped into the cubicle, all flying angles, flopping limbs and frizzy brown hair. Automatically, Cindy smiled.

"Hey, Mel...," she began, but her friend was too worked-up for pleasantries.

"_There _you are! Thank God!" Girl, you have _no _idea. No! _Don't look!" _For, Cindy had started to crane a glance over the divider. "He's switched medications again, the bastard, and he's driving us all _crazy! _Well, crazier than normal, anyway. Do yourself a favor, Cin, and _keep a low profile!"_

Cindy chuckled.

"Oh, goody. More dog shows, school plays and beauty pageants, until his pet ulcer calms down. I am truly blessed. Thanks for the warning."

Mel gave her a sheepish grin and quick hug, saying,

"Danny's making a run to the deli. Want anything?"

"A pistol," Cindy replied, laughing. Then, a sudden commotion at the reception desk caught the women's attention.

A group of six or seven armed men, wearing plain grey suits and dark glasses, had forced their way past Janet, who'd begun calling loudly for security. Cindy froze. One of them, the brown-haired fellow speaking into a small headset, was terribly familiar.

"Uh-oh," she breathed, ducking lower.

"Uh-oh?" Melinda repeated, gaze darting from the intruders, to Cindy. "Uh-oh's bad, isn't it?"

Then, coming to a swift, accurate conclusion, the courageous older woman hissed, "Quick, Cin, get down and find a place to hide. We'll cover for you."

They hugged again, and then Melinda marched determinedly out of the cubicle, waving her arms for attention and calling out questions. Jake, still on the phone, lunged halfway out of his office like a moray eel, bellowing for silence.

Meanwhile, Cindy tore all her pictures off the walls, ducked low, and sped from the cubicle at a crouching run. She'd encountered the brown-haired man a few weeks ago, at a traffic light, and he hadn't been walking dogs.

Someone grunted, "In here!"

Lennie, the station's beefy daytime security guard. Genial and bland-seeming as Oliver Hardy, with thick, hairy arms covered in tattoos, he was an old friend.

Nodding, Cindy scurried gratefully into his office. Lennie gave her a calm smile, adjusted his gun belt, and stepped from the little room, shutting the door behind him. Surrounded by video monitors, radios and a chattering police scanner, Cindy dove beneath the cluttered desk, looking wildly around for a power strip. There! On the floor, under the computer station, and fairly tentacled with humming power cords.

Shaking slightly, Cindy held her left wrist close against the thing, effectively drowning out her ID chip's signal (a trick she'd learned in high school). Just outside the office, she heard Lennie, over Jake's barked threats,

"Hey, now, what's all this about? Let's just calm down here, folks."

He was in danger, she realized. They all were; Lennie, Melinda, Jake..., even Peter Ride, the head anchorman, sounding vain and clueless as ever. All because of _her._ Yet, she couldn't just turn herself in. Not without endangering Scott, and International Rescue.

There was another door in the security office, leading to the fire stairs. Praying that her chip had been blasted by enough electromagnetic energy to wipe it, and that they hadn't posted anyone on the stairs, Cindy dashed for the green metal door.

_Papeete, Tahiti:_

They'd flown in, with Jeff's permission, landing at the big island's sole airport, Tahiti Faa'a. Gordon piloted the plane, bringing the yellow turbo-prop skimming down past ocean, mountains and forest to a gentle landing on the glittery black tarmac. Smooth as silk, no bounces... and he did it without guidance, never once glancing at the girl for direction or advice. Had to think a bit, to recall which way to taxi the plane, but he got them to the private hangar without incident, and _without_ letting on.

It was a lovely day,bright and hot, with the Mara 'amu trade wind blowing in from the south east. Laughing, bronze-skinned people strolled here and about, cats lay puddled contentedly in pools of warm sunshine, and masterless mutt-dogs trotted and snuffed. looking for a hand-out or a friendly pat. In a word, Tahiti.

Thefriends were feeling pretty exuberant, looking for a last day of adventure before finishing school, sport and life pulled themaway again. The itinerary had changed just a bit, for beyond the relaxed, brightly decorated little airport lay the 'Fare Hei', a market place of tiny thatched stalls manned by local folk, and packed with the most amazingly garish tourist stuff imaginable.

Alan, TinTin and Gordon went from booth to booth, trying things on, haggling with the proprietors (who sworeon a stack of Holy Writs that theytottered at the brink of poverty, with many hospitalized relatives, and ten hungry kids), and spending far too much money.

Alan was broke in thirty minutes, having purchased loud shirts, giant sunglasses, several flower leis, a souvenir beach towel, and a new board. TinTin was more circumspect, having much less to spend. She got a camera, a book and a bright new beach wrap. Gordon spent every bit of the cash he'd won from Virgil, buying just two things.

Then, it was back to the company car, and over to Jeff Tracy's private cove. Not the one with the big waves; the other one, further south, where the water was just calm enough to dive and snorkel. There was a guarded boat house there, containing _Tracy 2_, Jeff's bright red cigarette boat, and a number of local operatives.

The ocean slapped at the sleek hull as they cast off and pulled away from the shaded dock. Gordon seemed a little quieter than usual, but Alan put it down to his impending departure, rather than pegging the truth. TinTin was being awfully solicitous of the older boy, which would have made Alan quite jealous, had he not decided that, like a national park, he was just too beautiful to hoard, and belonged to the people. The female half, anyway..., if they were young, and hot.

Tanned and smooth, blond hair whipping about in the wind of the boat's wave-leaping speed, wearing sunglasses and shark-print trunks, Alan was almost as good-looking as he thought he was. TinTin stood up front between the boys, her long hair flying about in the breeze, snapping all three of them in the face. Sheets of glittering green water shot up on either side of the boat's sharp bow, whenever it planed across the top of a wave, drenching them all in salt spray. They slammed and bounced across the ocean's surface, as the screaming engine fought to deliver the speed Gordon demanded of it.

At last they reached the spot, just within sight of shore, where a string of old cargo ships had been scuttled to create an artificial reef. Gordon pulled her around in a hard, banking turn, casting up a great curtain of water that dissolved into a million shimmering diamonds. Too bad, at that. He'd have been more than satisfied to keep going until they reached Hawaii. But the boat rumbled to a stop, and he cast the anchor line over.

Alan and TinTin were ready to go in with just some fins and a snorkel, but Gordon had brought along his dive bag, and had to check out, then struggle into, his gear. Giving them both a cheery wave, Alan sceeched a Tarzan-yell and plunged right in, leaving TinTin behind to help her friend.

Gordon was all set to feel awkward about the situation, when an odd noise distracted him. A single-prop airplane was cutting low across the water and into the cove. Low-wing... probably a 4-seater... her angle was too steep, the noise of her engine a sick, throbbing cough. Seizing hold of the wide-eyed girl, Gordon threw TinTin off the boat as hard as he could, in what he prayed was a safe direction.

_Peary Crater:_

What truly hurt, as far as John was concerned, was losing the beer. But, that came later. They'd rejoined the station crew at the dining room, making new acquaintances and renewing old ones, then sat down to dinner.

The base commander was Captain Philip Riley, a white-haired New Zealander; lanky and philosophical, with many years of spaceflight under his belt. He'd pulled out all the stops, setting before his guests the best that the International Moon Station had to offer in the way of food. Canned, bagged and freeze-dried, mostly, but there were a few things from the green house, as well, and approximately a thimble-full of beer for each person present. (Riley was taking _no_ chances with the 'low-gravity fizzies').

"Ladies and Gentlemen," he began, standing to raise his tiny shot glass of Miller Light. "I am _most _proud to..."

**_CRUMP!_**

An explosion. The lights flickered, darkened, then came up again. The entire tunnel shuddered, and a fine sifting of dust rained down from the rocky ceiling. Everyone put on their helmets, and started up their suits' life support packs.

"_Lovely _damn timing!" Riley grumbled over the helmet comm. Signaling to his people, the commander added, "Wretched drill goes up like a cheap cracker _every_ time someone influential shows up."

He leveled a gloved forefinger at Pete, then.

"You lot make your way to the emergency escape pods, just in case. Follow the wall signs. You're far too valuable to risk, repairing a balky, damned, worthless, rotten...," Riley was still muttering casual maledictions as he turned the corner and shuffled out of sight.

They'd been told to scurry off to safety, but the Ares III crew hesitated. Pete glanced over at John. Even through the glass domes of their helmets, the young pilot could read McCord's question.

He started to relay the query to island base, through a comm frequency no one else possessed. Then a rapid, pulsing message at the back of his hand brought him up short.

"It's deliberate, probably," he told the mission commander, "and not the first attempt."

Pete nodded grimly.

"I was afraid of that."

The other three had been listening in on the exchange. Now Roger cut in,

"They're gonna need help, then."

Once again, Pete agreed.

"Yeah. And so are we, 'cause something tells me that the escape pods aren't as safe as Riley figures. Not if someone's trying to stop this mission. So, here's the plan: Thorpe, get to the hangar, hit the robot cranes, and get her reconfigured, double time. Kim, Linda, get down to the warehouse, strap on the powersuits, and start loading up supplies, as much as you can. Nothing in the flight plan covers this scenario, so use your judgement, and keep the chatter to a minimum. We meet back at the ship, on my signal. Tracy, you're with me."

In the corridor, as everyone leapt to their assigned tasks, Pete turned to John.

"Lead the way," he said.


	9. Chapter 9: Crashdive

9

_Tahiti:_

'_To every action, there is always opposed an equal reaction'. _When Gordon hurled the girl up and over the gunwale, the unstable speedboat rocked a bit; down and sideways. TinTin didn't go as far as he'd hoped, consequently.

Everything arrowed down to the ditching plane, choking and guttering horribly as it dove for the restless sea. Gordon made ready to jump, just as the stricken aircraft augered in, propellor blades crumpling back, wings deforming, water bulging away on all sides like a rushing tidal wave.

The boat was lifted, stood on end, and flipped completely over. He got clear somehow, feeling/hearing through the turbulent water the shock of the wreck settling to the bottom with an almighty, tearing _whump_.

A hundred impressions at once, in flying shards like a broken mirror: Something was wrong with his mask. He kept having to clear it, but the rebreather worked. From overhead, the brilliant disk of the sun wavered and danced on the heaving surface. Sand, and darting fish..., the upside-down interior of the boat (Absolutely, Jeff was going to kill him). Churning legs silhouetted against sharp light... TinTin... and over there, Alan. His brother looked down into the water, wide-eyed and anxious through the glass half-mask. _Two less to worry about_.

The blizzard of sand began to settle, allowing him a first glimpse of the downed plane, on its nose at a fifty degree angle, maybetwenty feet below the surface. He saw movement.

Signaling to Alan, Gordon released air from his buoyancy control vest, and dove for the wrecked plane. At the back, two small faces were pressed to the glass. A little girl, screaming and pounding at the window as she fought to hold herself and a crying baby above the rapidly rising water. There was no rear door.

The pilot-side door was jammed shut, crumpled in by the force of the crash. The other one, passenger side, yielded at last to a tremendous, adrenaline-fueled heave. There was a woman in the right seat, tugging feebly at her restraints. The pilot, a man, lay slumped over the controls, a cloud of wavering black blood obscuring his head and face.

Gordon found his buddy breathing attachment, and thrust the mouthpiece at the female passenger. A moment later, with a great rush of hissing clicks, she'd begun to breathe.

Alan had somehow fought his way down to the wreck, though he wore no weight belt. He started working at the woman's straps, but Gordon tapped his shoulder and signaled, _'no'._ She had air, and the pilot might well be past caring. The children, though, were in desperate straits.

Cursing the lack of space, Gordon used both arms to shove himself past the front seats and up into the shrinking silver air pocket that held two terrified little ones. Flailing legs, the whipping straps of an empty baby seat, jabbing arm rests, and then he was there.

"Mummy, help me! _Mummy... please!"_

The girl was shrieking, as the water rose past her chin. She'd pushed the baby up a bit higher, where he could find a few last gasps. Gordon seized them.

"Deep breath, Angel," he told her. She nodded desperately, clutching him close as she sucked in a huge lung full. "Hold tight t' th' babe."

With water almost to her nose, now, the brown-haired girl pulled the wailing infant down against her neck.

Gordon shifted his grip and maneuvered them down and around, past the front seats, to Alan, who was on his last reserves. The younger boy took the children, shot out of the crumpled cabin, and kicked for the surface.

Gordon then freed his dive knife and sawed through the woman's restraints. She'd been trying, weakly, to insert the buddy-breathing apparatus into her husband's mouth, but in vain. He didn't appear to be conscious.

Decision time. Get the woman to the surface? Or, try to free the pilot as well, and bring them both up at once? She was alive, but injured, and losing blood, herself. It all came down to time, measurable in each sudden, pulsing gush of dark blood. Time, and triage. _You save the ones, first, who have the best chance of survival._

Alan hadn't returned yet, but TinTin, miraculously, was there, hauling herself along the fuselage on a lung full of hoarded air. Gordon handed her the injured woman through a smokey halo of blood and long hair, then turned to free the pilot.

The retrieved buddy-breather he pushed into the man's slack mouth, only to have the thing drop free and drift away. So..., a few quick slashes, and a heave ... but something caught. The man's left leg was jammed between the seat and instrument panel.

With difficulty, Gordon rotated himself, got his own legs braced against the overhead, then pushed down against the seat cushion with one hand, while pulling at the man's flowered shirt with the other. There was so much blood in the water, now, that it was getting hard to see.

Everything... the stick, the throttle, arms, a floating purse, kept jabbing at him. Then Alan was back, reaching in through the passenger door to help free the trapped man. (Not 'the body'; not yet. There was a chance, still. There had to be.)

He got hung up himself, once, when his weight belt caught on an arm rest, but a swift twist settled that. Freed, he followed the pilot's limp form out through the door, and up.

They broke water into dazzling-harsh sunlight, Alan gasping wildly for breath, the pilot grey, and weakly oozing. TinTin had managed to get the woman and children onto the capsized boat,and a launch from thedistant boathouse was already on its way.

Gordon directed Alan to a set of metal rungs at the stern meant to allow water skiers to climb into the speed boat. His brother nodded, heaved himself onto the convex hull, then turned to help wrestle the comatose pilot out of the water.

"_Daddy!" _The little girl whimpered. TinTin turned from assisting the mother and hushed her, saying something calm and soothing that the others didn't quite catch. She then exchanged places with Alan, very carefully, and began CPR.

Alan had lost his snorkel, and a lot of his self-assurance. Wriggling his way forward along the capsized boat's exposed bottom (no barnacles, thanks to inhibiting paint and regular dry-berthings) Alan got to the mother and children. The woman was too groggy to do much worrying, so he concentrated his wet and bedraggled charm on the kids, instead. Putting an arm around the girl, he asked,

"You okay, Sweetie?"

She nodded, her large, green eyes filled with tears. Shifting the fussy baby, she whispered,

"Will daddy be all right?"

Alan glanced over at TinTin, still laboring over the motionless pilot. What was he supposed to say? Gordon would have come up with something smart and comforting, but Gordon was still in the water, probably not wanting to upset the balance of those already clinging to the boat. The launch, meanwhile, had grown from a speck, to the size of his hand. Rico was really pouring it on... and _dang_, that sun felt hot! Alan felt the first stabs of a major headache.

"Uh..., sure, he will. That girl over there? Her name's TinTin, and she's an expert at first aid. For real." Then, to distract the girl, "I'm Alan Tracy. What's your name?"

She sniffled, but managed a bit of a smile, nevertheless.

"Emma Farleigh," She told him. Holding out her tiny brother, in his soaked blue terry-cloth singlet (he had a double handful of her long, brown hair, and was thoughtfully gumming it), the little girl added politely,

"This is Michael Farleigh, Jr., and we're terribly pleased to make your ac- acquaintance, Mr. Tracy. That's my mum. She's Angelina Farleigh, but she's from Cornwall, and things are different, there."

As though that explained everything. Alan gave her a dazzling smile.

"Came to Tahiti on vacation, huh? Nice, dramatic entrance, Chica, but there's better ways to, like, skip all the airport security crap."

That got a small laugh. The baby boy grabbed blurrily for his shell necklace (donned well clear of the island; Jeff Tracy did _not _believe in jewelry for boys).

Then, Rico, Marie and the boathouse crew drew up alongside in the big launch. Help, at last.

Alan breathed a sigh of relief, and hugged Emma closer.

"It's gonna be okay, Sweetie," he told her, giving the baby his necklace.


	10. Chapter 10: Damage Control

10

John, with Pete McCord close behind, made his way down-corridor as rapidly as the situation would allow. The moon's gravity was slight, so a relatively small effort should have brought great, soaring leaps, but the tunnel was dark, its ceiling low, and a too-forceful collision could mean broken helmets and busted skulls. They had to compromise. Hurry up... _carefully._

Uncertain what lay ahead, John couldn't prepare. He didn't like that. Nine times out of ten, accurate intelligence was half the battle, and he felt blind without it. Five still seemed to be occupied, though, and Brains' hadn't signaled back since their interrupted dinner. Comm block, maybe? All he knew for sure was that someone had tried to shoot them down at launch, and that, very probably, this current emergency was more of the same.

Fifty feet down-corridor, an access door, marked _'Do not enter!'_ stood halfway open to their right. Seemed like as good a bet as any, so he went on through. Pete followed, keeping quiet and out of the way.

Inside, wall-mounted alarm lights rotated a blaring red warning. No klaxon, though; or else it was drowned out by his own breathing, and the varied rustles and clicks of his survival suit.

Once, Pete took an over-large step and bumped the ceiling, releasing a spate of military-style cursing until John's inspection OK'd the helmet. No visible cracks, and a quick coat of spray-on leak finder revealed no bubbles. Good to go.

Somebody... Linda, it sounded like... came over the comm with,

"Everything all right, over there?"

"Fine," Pete responded curtly. "Clear channel!"

And radio silence returned.

They rounded a bend in the dark passage, which was no longer smoothly machined, but looked rough, and much larger, as though recently gouged out by something very big. About half of the moon station crew stood there, clustered around their commander. With the aid of their helmet lamps, Riley appeared to be leafing hurriedly through some sort of operations manual.

Marking their approach, the white-haired base commander shook his head, mouth tautening. He held up three fingers, indicating a comm channel. John and Pete switched frequencies in time to hear Riley saying,

"...no place for guests. I'm afraid that I really _must _ask you to vacate these premises, until further..."

"Sir," John cut him off, controlling his own impatience, "I believe we can help, but we need to know what's going on."

Riley, his bushy dark eyebrows lifting, looked over at Pete, who nodded slightly.

"Well... highly irregular... not at all S.O.P., but... very well. We've had a bit of a generator failure... ruddy thing was replaced only last week. Switched over to auxiliaries, but Lord knows how long _they'll _hold up... and now thedamned drill's run amok."

Worse yet, according to the station's computer, the robotmole was headed up and out, toward the crater rim. Once it breached the last few feet of rock, half the moon base would experience explosive decompression. They'd tried overriding the drill remotely, but to no avail. Something was blocking their signal, and the monster chewed on, heading for hard vacuum.

"I've ordered the blast doors sealed," Riley continued calmly, "To save whatever we may, and we've a crack team having a go at the main generator..., but it might be just as well for you lot to lift off, while you've still time."

"Actually, Sir," John replied, starting past him, "My family's company manufactured that drill. I think I may be able to stop it for you."

"Well. That's all right, then," the commander responded, evidently relieved to have found plan 'B'. "Have a care, though, won't you? Diced astronaut would be most difficult to explain, come quarterly report time."

"Yes, Sir," John replied, seriously. Then, needing to deliver a warning..., but secretly..., he added in French, "look out for thrown shoes."

Recalling that Riley was a bit of a linguist, he hoped the base commander would make the connection (French '_sabot'_ equaled wooden shoes, as long ago thrown by angry workers into their machines, causing _sabotage.)_

Philip Riley's blue eyes widened slightly, and then he nodded.

"Very good, Mr. Tracy; footwear noted. Carry on."

Warning delivered, John proceeded down-shaft, Pete close at his heels. The walls of the tunnel glistened with sealant, sprayed on by the robot drill to keep the bore hole from collapsing. The stuff gleamed wetly in the light of their helmet lamps, making the tunnel look like a giant digestive tract. It was sticky, too, allowing John and McCord to pick up their pace a bit. Around them, the tunnel walls and very air began to vibrate. And, sure enough, the tunnel had changed direction, doglegging back around, and decidedly upward.

Pete tapped at his arm, holding up two fingers. John switched comm frequencies again, to hear,

"What d' you figure?"

"Someone's seized control of the drill. Remotely, would be my guess, and they're planning to drive it out through the crater wall. Only way to stop it is to get in and shut it down by hand."

Pete chewed on this in silence for a moment. Then,

"Not that it's worth fifty cents at the beer hall..., but I wonder _why?_ I mean, c'mon, what the _hell?_ We're a bunch of damn US astronauts trying to reach Mars. Who'd want to..."

He trailed off, for they'd reached the runaway drill's slimy, churning dust cloud. Beyond it, their quarry gnawed inexorably away. From behind, the big, multi-tracked vehicle looked a lot like the Mole, only smaller, and much slower.

It was black and yellow, with a giant red _'Tracy Aerospace'_ logo stamped on the back, just above the rear maintenance hatch. Focusing on the accusatory logo, John shook his head.

'_Great. That'll be a lawsuit.' _

In the low billions, probably. Better stop the thing as quickly as possible, he decided, and limit the damages; not to mention save his own life, and everyone else's.

Quickly retrieving a bit of non-standard equipment from his belt, John handed the startled mission commander a pistol. God bless Grandma's foresight.

"Keep watch," he said, "and let me know how close we're getting to the crater rim."

McCord accepted the weapon.

"You sure you know how to shut that sonuvabitch off?"

John smiled a little.

"No, but I'll figure something out when I get there. I'm good at that."

"Yup," Pete replied facetiously. "I _love _this job. 'Join the Navy, see the world', my ass!"

But he posted himself for a clear view of the tunnel, anyway, gun firmly in hand. John sped off after the rampaging, two-storey drill. Rocks and dirt shot backwards at him in great, roaring streams. Keeping precisely to the middle, he was able to avoid being struck, mostly, though he did get tremendously dirty. Something pinged against the top of his helmet, but too far back for him to see whether anything had cracked. Just have to keep going, and hope for the best, he supposed.

The gummy surface substituted well for full gravity, allowing him almost to run. As crushed gravel and sealant jetted past, John caught up with the lumbering drill. There were four sets of tank-like treads, top, bottom and both sides, gripping the tunnel walls and driving the robot mole blindly forward. Several scalloped indents in its hull allowed excavated, crushed rock to be hurled aside and back, while valuable ores and minerals were reserved inside. Small, high-pressure sealant nozzles swept the walls and floor, stabilizing the newly dug cavern with fast-drying cement. So far, so good, but how to get in? The thing wasn't meant to be accessed this way, while in operation.

He'd have to clamber up the lower tractor tread, vault to the access hatch, pop it open, and climb within, John decided. After that...? Well, the Mole had an emergency cut-off switch up front, and he was willing to bet a whole bunch of lives that its little brother did, too. Taking a deep breath, he darted forward.

Meanwhile, at the spacecraft maintenance bay, Roger Thorpe had climbed his way to the controls of a crane far larger than anything possible on Earth. The final reconfiguration schema had been input months before, by mission control. All _he _had to do was access the system, and get things rolling. They probably hadn't planned it to be quite so rushed, but then again, Houston hadn't figured on sabotage, either. No one had.

As he took his place in the operator's seat, the Marine hit buttons and flipped switches like a maniac, one eye on the instrument panel, one eye on _Endurance,_ stretched out on the bay floor like a sleeping griffin. And then, to the blare of klaxons and the cyclops-stab of alarm lights, things began to happen.

At his command, giant clamps emerged from the ground and affixed themselves to her forepart; section A, command and habitation. Robotic crane arms extended from the walls and ceiling with great, creaking groans. To his right, a louvered door, nearly as vast as that in the Vehicle Assembly Building, clattered resoundingly open.

He'd simulated the process countless times, but seeing it actually _happen_... Roger felt like a kid on Saturday morning, watching a Japanese "Transforming Robot" cartoon.

Section C, consisting of the P-Bar engines, main cargo bay, and a magnetic fuel bottle containing the world's entire supply of anti-protons, rumbled through the door on an immense tractor, and out to the bay.

Twenty sets of crane arms seized the long, cylindrical ship segment and began maneuvering it into position, as further arms unlocked section B, the Earth-side flight assembly. Section B was lowered gently into a deep holding pit, to await their eventual return.

Motors rumbled, servos whined, steam hissed and spat, filling the assembly bay with thunder and vibration. Feeling rather like the sorcerer's apprentice, Roger began humming. More buttons, and section C was rotated, then lowered. It was like watching giants play with a skyscraper. Houston called in, demanding to know why he'd initiated the reconfig six whole hours ahead of schedule. Mindful of Pete's orders about radio silence, Thorpe gave them the briefest possible reply,

"Stand by, Houston," and kept working. He didn't see the figure rising slowly along a nearby cargo lift until far too late. There were two bullets. One pierced the material of his right suit arm, the other cracked his helmet.

Roger had a good head for trajectory. Despite the savage, burning pain in his arm, and a sudden headache, he had a good notion whence the shots had originated. Picking up the only thing handy, a twelve-pound adjustable socket-wrench, he flung it as hard as he could, in a flat, frisbee-style spin. On Earth, his missile would have fallen short, which was probably why the guy didn't duck. Too bad for him. One end of the spinning wrench caught and shattered the gunman's faceplate, sending him tumbling off the cargo lift.

For just an instant, Thorpe slumped over the controls, hearing over and over Linda's warning about falling asleep at his post. Then, (Marines went down hard, when they went down at all) he pulled himself together, let the suit plug the bullet hole,and got back to work.

At the warehouse, Cho and Linda had a bit of a job climbing into their power suits. They were large and bulky, like bright yellow, two-storey robots with seats, instead of heads. They were operated with joystick and pedal controls, with big actuators providing super-human strength, angular motion and force sensors to keep them stable, and advanced bio-cybernetic capability.

Linda strapped in, as she'd done so many times in simulation, and keyed the suit on. A flat, transparent heads-up display emerged from the side wall of her open cockpit, showing distance to target, estimated mass of cargo, approximate gravity, atmospheric density and about a dozen other things. No stereo system, but the fog lights were a nice touch.

Working the controls like a pro, Linda turned her giant machine, saw that Kim Cho, too, was suited up and ready to go. Now, for the warehouse itself, some fifty feet to the rear.

"All set, Doctor?" Linda asked her friend.

"After you, Doctor," Cho replied, actually getting the suit to execute a courtly bow and flourish. Linda grinned. She _had _to have practiced that maneuver on the simulator, when no one was looking.

"Cute," she called over. "The world's only multiple PhD holding astronaut-comedian."

She'd have patted Dr. Kim's mechanized back, but the suits had an in-built collision prevention system to keep their operators from staging 'robot fights'. They started forward across the storage bay, the walk feeling entirely natural, except for the height, and the booming reverberation of their footfalls. Sensory attachments to their gloved fingers allowed fine manipulation of the power suit's barrel-sized hands. When Linda extended a forefinger, so did the power suit, pressing an oversized button on the warehouse wall.

As the metal doors rattled aside, Linda heard a sudden spate of cursing over the comm. It sounded like Pete.

"Everything all right, over there?" She asked, suddenly worried.

"Fine," he snapped back. "Clear channel!"

Linda glanced over at Cho, who shrugged, the power suit mimicking her gesture with a low, growling whine. Over channel 4, she said,

"He would summon or warn us away, if there were need, Linda."

Bennett nodded, then headed for a stack of truck-sized crates. Food and water first, she decided, then medicine. But all at once, something flickered redly in her peripheral vision. A single brilliant, specular flash, and the suit's left knee seized up, lasered into sudden immobility. She almost toppled, catching herself at the last instant with one huge, splayed robot hand. His quarry crippled, the gunman showed himself. Climbing atop the crates, he took aim once again, for the operator, this time.

From behind, Linda heard the rapid, pounding thud of running footsteps. Another red beam winked on, but Cho lifted her suit's arm in a great, fisted arc, and brought it crashing across the piled crates. Several tons of supplies thundered to the warehouse floor at their feet. As for the gunman, swift application of her suit's plasma-laser both knocked him unconscious, and hurled him to safety.Dr. Kim, it seemed, was not to be taken on lightly.

"He will not trouble us again for some time," she announced, after a quick scan. "But we should be quick, anyway."

"Gotcha. Gimme a second... McCord, Thorpe," Linda called out, breaking silence once more, "Watch yourselves, we've got..."

"On top of it, Doc, thanks." Pete replied. "Stick to the script."

By which he probably meant, 'Keep loading supplies'.

Linda nodded, though he couldn't see her, and struggled on with the task, bum knee and all.

'_Houston must be going nuts!',_ she fretted, reaching for a crate marked, **Protein powder: chemically stabilized.**

_Not as simple as it sounded..._ The tread rumbled slowly upward, each linked, clanking subsection emerging from the dusty floor to vibrate and clatter its rough way to the robot's undercarriage. John took hold of an ascending tread section and rode it up, reaching for another, and then another, still. It was like scrambling his way up a slow escalator, only louder, and dirtier. If his helmet comm was working, he sure couldn't tell. Too noisy.

From the top of the tread to the bottom of the access ladder lay a smooth, handhold-less space of about twelve feet. John matched steps with the clanking treads, eye-balled the distance, then jumped. A little too hard, actually. One sixth gravity again, dammit. No harm done, though, beyond a rather rough collision with the third rung.

"_A hundred and fifty feet, Tracy." _Pete informed him, barely audible. Contact of sorts, though weak and staticky.

John redoubled his efforts, skimming up the ladder toward the black-and-white striped hatch. He got there, keyed the little door open with a family access code, and hauled himself inside the robot mole. The cut off switch lay forward, most likely; toward what would be the cockpit, in the IR version.

"_Hundred and twenty."_

The interior was a grinding nightmare of homicidal moving parts. Pistons, gears, belt and particle drives, some sort of screaming turbine and lots of pulsing hoses. John compared what he was seeing to his memorized internal diagram of the Mole. Similar..., but far less roomy, and clearly not meant to be navigated whilst in action.

Thinking at once, _'Shit',_ and _'Well, at least it'll be quick,' _he began crawling his way through blistering hot metal. And damn glad to be wearing that insulated lunar survival suit, too.

"_Hundred and ten."_

The diagram in his head was two-dimensional. He had to allow for that, as well as shrinking the distances, and dumbing-down the technology. ...And he still almost put his hand down on a whirling gear shaft.

"_One hundred feet to crater rim."_

Regular 'Little Mary Sunshine', Pete was. Full of joyful tidings. A bad spot came up, where he had to ease his way between two thudding pistons, while still ducking low enough to avoid having his head torn off by a vicious drive belt.

'_Ike,'_ he thought, visualizing his engineer friend's thin, twitchy face, _'I owe you a goddam black eye.'_

"_Ninety feet, Tracy."_

'_...and love you, too, Pete.'_

He came to an even tighter squeeze, a narrow opening between counter-rotating drums. Placing hands and feet on opposite wall surfaces, he might sort of flatten out and do a horizontal crabwalk between them, but not with the helmet on. There just wasn't room. Well, he'd never figured on living forever...

A quick button press and sideways twist unlatched the helmet. He set it carefully aside, on what he hoped was a stable surface, then arranged himself as he'd visualized and began a careful traversal of the whisper-thin gap. He moved only one limb at a time, and concentrated fiercely on not sagging. If he dropped or rose even a little bit, he'd be shredded like coleslaw.

"_Eighty feet."_

There was a Tracy cousin from Kansas, a few generations back, who'd fallen into a threshing machine and been torn to bits. As he cautiously inched his way between the whirling, sparking drums, John wondered whether he was about to become an equally gory object lesson in Tracy family history.

'_I mind back to Cousin John, up there gadding about on the moon back in '65... Got hisself tore up something awful by that rock crusher, didn't he, Maw?'_

At last, after what felt like a hundred years of cautious inching, John slipped gratefully out from between the keening drums, and peered forward.

_Damn._

No place to go. Thanks to the worst possible placement of the drill's pulverizing apparatus, the way was blocked. The unit was designed to lift up and out of the way when not engaged, but that didn't help him much, now. He could just glimpse the cut-off switch, through the slim interstice between rumbling pulverizer and battery unit...

'_What the hell. Worth a try. Father doesn't exactly build these things to last.'_

He took hold of the guidance system's secondary battery pack, and jerked it out of its cradle. Receiving a sudden error message, the dim little guidance computer fell into the electronic equivalent of a dead faint. The back-up systems crashed like dominoes, triggering a lock-up that halted the robot mole about twenty feet from frigid, airless death. Thank God forbusiness-sense, and planned obsolescence.

John slumped against the warm bulkhead for a few moments, letting about sixteen tons of tension leak slowly away.

'_Two black eyes,'_ he decided, and at least one busted-in tooth. Then, just a little wobbly, he started back.

Pete met him at the rear hatch, peering anxiously within for signs of life. His relieved expression, when John finally clambered into view, was priceless.

"You look like hell," John commented drily, as though he'd been down the lane to the mailbox.

"Yeah, well... you'll have to forgive me," McCord replied, giving him a hand out of the drilling machine. "Some of us are human."

John shrugged.

"Timid, huh?" Then, "It wasn't _that _bad. Crawl through..., disconnect a battery pack. One, two, and out."

"If you say so." McCord handed back the gun, choosing not to comment on its presence, or to ask how John had gotten it past the security checks. Some things were better left alone.

They jumped down to the tunnel floor, the descent noticeably slower than it would have been on Earth.

"Let's get back to Thorpe, and the girls," Pete told him, preparing to signal a 'fall back'. "Something Linda said awhile ago makes me think they've had some trouble."

He wouldn't radio Houston, though; not yet. From this distance, realistically, there was nothing mission control could do but order an abort, and that was the _last_ thing the Ares III crew wanted.


	11. Chapter 11: The Ladies Aid Society

_Sorry, bitten by the editing bug, again._

11

The question was; up, or down? Had the whack-jobs in the grey suits planted their men throughout the entire building, or were they confined to the fourth floor? Just inside the concrete-and-steel stairwell, Cindy forced herself to slow down, and think. No sense running like an idiot, right into the waiting noose.

Looking first _up_ the tall stairway, then _down_ it, she saw nothing but dust motes, lazy-dancing in shafts of slanting sun, heard only the muffled chatter and canned music of surrounding offices.

So, up led to the roof, with its heli-pad and observation deck; down... if she dared risk it... down led out, and to safety. More room to maneuver, down stairs, and many more places to hide, though her townhouse was probably out of the question, now.

'_Down', _she decided anyway, easing her way along the cold, grey wall, eyes shifting constantly from one door to the next. If she could make it to street level, she'd be able to lose herself in the crowd, maybe use the cell phone she'd lifted from Lennie's desk to call for help.

The second floor was the station's lobby and reception area. People bustled, potted exotics stood whispery-tall, and big neon signs declared: _WNN- Your Eye on the World!_ With a sigh of relief, Cindy started to open the door, but a second glimpse through the wire-reinforced window revealed another of those government types by the elevators, looking like a hungry pike in dark glasses. The parking garage, maybe?

Beginning to feel rather desperate, Cindy went down another two storeys, peering cautiously through each window slit as she passed.

At the garage level, she saw another suspicious figure, this one fingering something inside his bulging jacket. Cindy was just about to give up and try for the roof, after all, when two very strange things happened.

The elevator doors beyond her hiding place chimed opened, releasing a large group of relaxed and chattering business women, joking and elbowing one another like they were headed for the mother of all 3-margarita lunches. At nearly the same time, a young boy, obviously lost and afraid, ran up to the grey-suited man.

Simultaneously thinking _'Huh?'_ and, _'One, two, three... GO!'_ , Cindy slipped out through the fire door and into the crowd of women. What happened next took her completely by storm. She was briskly hauled into the center of the group, her blue 'dress for success' jacket removed, and a girlishly-ruffled floral number slipped on in its place. Even stranger, someone with the calm professionalism of a Hollywood makeup artist placed and adjusted a long, light-brown wig, and straw tote bag. All this before Cindy could do more than gasp. More to the point, perhaps, before the gunman disentangled himself from the boy, who'd now been 'found' by his hysterical mother and loud, angry father.

"What the hell do you think you're doing, Mister?" The tall, beefy fellow demanded. "Trying to kidnap my son? You a child molester, or something? Why, I've got a good mind to...!"

As if such things happened every day, the group carried on walking and chatting. Stunned, Cindy started to question the nearest office worker (the 'make-up artist'; a sleek, bespectacledred-head), but the oddly familiar woman merely smiled, and passed her a cell phone. Immediately, it began to ring.

As they were piling into a white van marked _'Great Escape Tours',_ Cindy answered it. Santa Claus, no doubt...

The screen flashed once, then cleared, revealing the stoic, uniformed image of John Tracy. Except... how _could _it be him, when John was on the moon, up to his neck in flight logs and reconfiguration details? Feeling a thick coat of ice crystalizing around her queasy insides, Cindy took a rather large risk.

"Hey, Baby," she said, her voice a throaty purr, "we still on for tonight?"

The woman next to her, the one who'd exhibited such a deft hand with the disguise, made a slight choking noise.

'_Ah-ha! Got someone's attention, anyway...'_

John's response was slower than it should have been, but right on target.

"Not unless you know something I don't," he said, cocking an eyebrow. "This call is being long-distance relayed, through a friend."

All right... _maybe._

"Same friend who arranged all this, I take it? Thanks for the assist. I'll pay you back by using that right head-shot in my report."

"Left profile," he corrected. "Do I pass? Much as I enjoy all this verbal patty-cake, things are a little hectic up here. The 'Ladies Aid Society' will take you to a secure airstrip, where another operative will take over. Your father and co-workers are already taken care of."

Cindy smiled, feeling a sudden, genuine rush of gratitude.

"Thank you, John," she told him, quietly. "I owe you."

"All in a day's soap-opera. But do me a favor, and tell the red-head sitting beside you... _and _Scott..., that you were kidding, earlier? I have to come home, _some_time."

She grinned a truly mischievous and wicked little grin, thinking, _'Gotcha!'_

"But, _Sweetheart_! Love-cuddles! Mooshy-face..."


	12. Chapter 12: Question and Answer

12

At Papeete's Mamao Hospital, Alan sat on a cushioned bench beside Emma Farleigh, while Gordon filled out a police report, and TinTin waited for news of the parents and baby. Emma had passed inspection earlier, but her infant brother, who couldn't speak, required a bit more looking over.

To distract the girl, gradually drying in the sunshine beneath a gaily-patterned blanket, Alan entertained her with stories about himself. How he'd blown up the boys' lavatory at school, shaved the neighbor's rabbits, and digitally recorded the principal striking out with his mom (excellent black mail material). Emma was enthralled, finding Alan nearly as wonderful as _he _did.

"...So, anyway," he was saying, "I had to get back at him, right? So I sprayed his gym locker full of Virgil's doe-musk 'buck bringing' stuff. Omigosh! It stunk so bad that people were, like, _crying._ I got expelled again, but it was worth it!"

Emma giggled, snuggling herself closer against the grinning boy.

"Alan Tracy," she said, with all the bright certainty of childhood, "I do believe that I shall marry you, one day."

He ruffled her long brown hair, saying,

"Look me up in ten years, Em, and if I'm not, like, already occupied, we'll talk." A light promise, easily made, but she took it to heart, as little girls will.

Meanwhile, Gordon had finished with Officer Tamatoa, and stalked back over to TinTin. The girl stood by the nurses' station, dejected and pale.

"And...?" He enquired.

She shrugged helplessly.

"Mrs. Farleigh is in stable condition, and the baby is doing well, but they will say nothing of the husband, except that he is receiving artificial blood, and neural stimulation."

Gordon sagged visibly, his coppery hair glinting in the window-filtered light. She could see... _feel_... him blaming himself. Impetuously, TinTin put a hand up to stroke the tumbled hair off his forehead, but he caught at her wrist.

"Don't, please," he told the girl, very seriously; wanting to say more, but quite unable to. Alan joined them then, for a plump, smiling nurse had called Emma in to see her mummy.

"Didja hear that?" He boasted, "She wants to marry me! Rescuing people is, like, totally without parallel! I could, y' know, _absolutely _get into this."

Except that, for some reason, his two best friends in the world weren't buying into his fine mood.

"Dude! What is the _matter _with you two?" The baby-faced blond demanded, clearly exasperated. "We did it! Just us; no help from the Three Musketeers. I mean, we haven't rocked this hard since Macedonia, and you guys look like you want to jump off the roof! What's _up_ with that?"

It was Gordon who responded, sounding as bleak as TinTin looked.

"Alan... what if we'd not been there, today? What if we'd decided t' go surfin' , instead? They'd have died..., down t' th' babe, even. And we'd have heard of it first in th' damn paper. Makes me wonder... How often do 'little' things like this happen? Nothin' at all t' do with International Rescue, but the' entire bloody universe t' four innocent people."

TinTin reached out and began rubbing Gordon's back, which was rock-hard with tension. This time, he didn't stop her. Alan, though, merely rolled his eyes.

"Okay, but, like..., we _were _there, remember? We saved them..., _duh!_ And mostly, I might add, because you're this amazing uber-diver. Gordon, man, why can't you just lighten up, and enjoy being a hero? You used to be more fun than this!"

TinTin inhaled sharply, ready to step in, if it looked like the boys were about to come to blows. There was no need, though.

Gordon dropped his gaze, packing the unwanted feelings away alongside a great many others.

"Right. Sorry. Just bein' stupid. Too much sun."

His world righted once more, Alan grinned and clapped his friends upon the shoulder.

"There you go! That's more like it! But the only cure for too much sun is more, and I hear the barrels calling our names, man."

So, a little later, when the Farleighs had been seen to (Michael, Sr. began showing signs of brain activity, and the kids, who'd be staying with an uncle and aunt in Papeete, were released) Alan, Gordon and TinTin left the little hospital and headed for big surf.

_San Francisco:_

The tour van pulled to a stop in the tall, wooded hills surrounding the Presidio. Long since shut down, the former military base-cum-park had been refurbished, and part of its land appropriated, by International Rescue. It was late afternoon, and the sun was warmly westering, though the atmosphere in the van (around the redhead, at least) was decidedly frosty. Cindy had attempted to apologize, but the other woman merely adjusted the set of her clearly non-prescriptive glasses (her eyes through the so-called lenses never changed size), and got out a book, Julius Caesar's _"Gallic Wars"._

"Thanks a lot," Cindy told her, as she stepped out of the still-running van. "And, hey... nice wig."

The door slammed shut with far more force than necessary, giving Cindy that warm, cozy glow that only came from having _totally _pissed off another woman.

"_And he's prettier than you are, too!" _She added, as an inspired parting shot. Then, grinning to herself, the rescued reporter cast about for her next move. The airstrip wasn't much, but the jet at the end was familiar, and the pilot...

Cindy dropped everything, and all but teleported.

"_Scott!"_

She got there, somehow, meeting him halfway, after kicking off her high heels and racing full tilt over the steaming blacktop. She threw herself into his arms, was lifted clear off the ground and kissed so hard that it left her gasping. Something utterly important, some element that made everything else in her life work, clicked back into place.

It was nearly impossible to talk and kiss at the same time, and Cindy would eagerly have chosen the latter, but Scott had something to say.

"Listen, Hon," he told her, pulling away a little, then crushing her back against his chest for a moment, "You need to come home. Which brings up a... No, _wait. _Shut up for a minute, please. I'm trying to... I've got to do this while I can, before you decide to take off, again. Uh...," he rubbed at the back of his neck with one big hand, looking pained, apprehensive and (a little) hopeful.

"You... uh..., wouldn't want to think about... you know... getting _married, _would you?"

Having said that, Scott appeared to deflate somehow, the look in his dark blue eyes reflecting utter shock at his own boldness.

Cindy's jaw dropped.

"Married...?" She repeated, incredulously. "No one's ever asked me that before." If he'd hit her over the head with a baseball bat, she couldn't have gone any number.

"But, Scott... I don't know how to cook, and... half the time, I forget to shave my legs."

Somehow, he managed to keep a straight face.

"Well, uh... Kyrano and Grandma usually handle Kitchen Patrol, Hon, and I'll, um... let you know if the 'natural look' gets out of hand. Any other objections?"

He grew suddenly more serious, then, expressing something that actually had him worried.

"Not waiting for a better offer, are you?"

Cindy tipped her head back to stare at him.

"A better... You mean _John?_ You're kidding, right? Glaciers are fun to look at, but I wouldn't want to bring one home. Besides, I kind of like my men to have a discernible pulse!"

Relieved, Scott let go for a bit, and helped Cindy collect her scattered belongings.

"So... That's a maybe? A _'let me think it over...'_, a _'hell, no, but thanks for asking'..._?"

Cindy hoisted the tote bag, dusted herself off, and grinned.

"You know, Hollywood, _somewhere _out there, there might be a guy who's just as wealthy, good-looking, charming, and has as exciting a job... but I guarantee you, he can't do that 'confused puppy-dog' look _half _so well."

And she kissed him again, as he handed her into the luxuriously appointed private jet.

"So...?"

"I'm not Catholic," she protested.

"I can live with a civil ceremony."

"Your father hates me," she insisted, as he donned his head set and started up the engines.

"He's not asking you, _I_ am."

"I don't know the first thing about kids!" She shouted, over the gathering scream of twin jet engines, and his murmured conversation with the nearest tower. The plane began to taxi.

"Grandma has all kinds of patience, and years of experience," he yelled back. "Anything else?"

The nose wheel lifted, as trees and buildings whipped past with violently growing speed.

"Yes."

"Okay, out with it. What's the problem this time?"

The ground dropped away, the jet's sleek shadow rippling like dark fire over foliage and hillside until it became too small and indistinct to pick out. Beneath them, the big square peninsula that was San Francisco spread itself out like a beautiful jigsaw puzzle. Ant-like traffic, pretty toy buildings, wrinkled blue ocean, the incomparable Golden Gate Bridge, and bird-guarded Farallon Islands. Her home... once.

Cindy turned her eyes back to the pilot, gut-punch handsome in his mirrored sunglasses, bullet-scarred leather jacket and radio headset. She put a hand on his arm.

"Uh-uh. I meant... _'yes'. _Let's do it."

And, for a little over an hour, until the plane touched down on Tracy Island, they were the only two people in the world who knew that single, wonderful secret.


	13. Chapter 13: Point Blank

13

_Beneath Peary Crater:_

John and Pete made the best speed they could along the dark, uneven tunnel. They'd received brief responses from the rest of the crew, but Commander Riley and his repair team had yet to call in. Moments later, they learned why.

Something..., good instincts or bitter experience..., caused the tall pilot to get his weapon out again, and thumb it off safety. Covered in brown dust and hardened sealant, he couldn't see very well, having had to scrape a window through all the accumulated grime on his faceplate, but it proved to be enough.

They rounded a corner just in time to see one of the moon station crew... the name plate on his survival suit read _'Oldman'_... forcing a handful of others into an outer airlock, at gunpoint. As none of his prisoners wore helmets, the man's intent was obvious.

"Hey," John called out, over the suits' emergency frequency (whatever channel he was using would be overridden immediately), "Over here."

The gunman looked about, the point of his weapon wavering slightly. Over the helmet comm, he couldn't tell how far away, or from which direction, the call had originated.

...Until he found himself staring at two American astronauts, one of them armed, and both of them dangerous.

John had taken careful aim. Now he said, calmly,

"Make a move for that trigger, Jack-ass, and you're going to die. That isn't a threat, it's a statement of fact. Your head will explode like a grape, all over the tunnel wall; messy, but satisfying. Drop your weapon."

An instant passed, and then the other man's gun drifted lazily to the ground, where it struck with a faint clatter. Something about the steel in John's voice and the flint in his eyes had added up to _'no quarter' _, convincing 'Oldman' that the astronaut was more than willing to run an impromptu lunar ballistics test. Even now, as Riley and his people swarmed and subdued the fellow, he kept his nervous gaze fixed tightly on John.

With the saboteur well in hand, they left the diggings and returned to the main station, where it was safe to un-helm and regroup. Riley gave orders to his crew in rapid, clipped tones. Four of them dragged the gunman off to the brig for later questioning, while the others hurried off to the still-fritzing generator. As they jumped to, the base commander turned to regard McCord. Raking a sinewy hand through his white hair, Riley said,

"Seems we've a number of WorldGov moles in the garden," he said, "some of whom have beenactive for over a year. Suppose one can never tell about other people, no matter what their dossiers claim..." Then, gathering himself, "There's got to be an inquest, of course, what with weapons being drawn, crewmen suborned and injured, and equipment damaged. There'll be no end of official unpleasantness, depend on it. But..." The commander fixed his bright blue gaze on Pete,

"If you should chance to lift off within..., say..., the next two hours, I should hardly notice. Wretched brig-consignment paperwork and accountancy long forms, don't you know."

McCord smiled, and put out a hand. Very carefully, he said nothing that might indicate collusion, but he and Riley shook once. Then, gesturing hurriedly to his pilot, Pete turned and started off.

"Young man," The base commander interrupted, quietly. John paused in mid-pivot. Riley stepped forward and put a hand on his shoulder, raising a puff of gritty brown dust.

"As you can see, I haven't much in the way of a command. 'Small, out-of-the-way and ill-supplied' sums matters up rather tidily, I should think. But, for whatever it's worth, those resources that I _do _command, are yours, and your family's, at need."

He had, of course, been thanked before, and was in a tearing hurry, besides; but the dignified officer, doing his best to eke out a bit of science and mining work at the loneliest post imaginable, got a slight smile out of John, anyway.

"Thank you, Sir. The offer means a lot, and I'll pass it on."

They shook on it. Then 5 came on, with alarming news about Cindy Taylor, Dr. Bennett called sharply for medical equipment, and Houston rang, refusing to be put off any longer. Hell, it seemed, was demanding its paycheck.


	14. Chapter 14: Stoked

14

_Tahiti:_

There wasn't much time. Gordon gauged the amount of daylight remaining as Virgil had taught him, by extending a hand out atarm's length, fingers together, laid flat between sun and horizon. Each finger represented fifteen minutes... and all he could fit was three. Well, forty-five minutes on the water was still a microcosm of Heaven. He'd take whatever he could get.

After waxing their boards and attaching the leashes, he and Alan strode out into the nearly homicidal surf, leaving TinTin stretched out on a towel with her book. She'd kissed them both with equal affection, still chuckling softly over the brand-new tattoos and photo booth pictures they'd got on the way over, then delved back into _'The Elegant Universe'._ String theory; John would have liked it, though the term made Gordon think rather of kitchen junk drawers. But the ocean... huge, glassy tubes laid out like corduroy, tipped with blowing spray... _that _he understood.

Gordon fought his way out beyond the shore break, a little behind Alan, then slid on and paddled hard to where the waves began, the board pressing tight against his chest. He let two surge past unridden, lifting and dropping beneath him like a roller coaster. Alan hopped the first thing that came along, as usual, hooting like a gibbon all the way to shore. Wiped out at the end, too, but vaulted to his feet anyway, laughing and punching the sky.

The one _he _wanted (it would crest and break just right, he could feel it) gathered itself at last in a great, roaring mass, sucking him in and hurling him forward. As the board lifted, he gained his feet, letting everything wash away. He crouched low, arms spread, feeling the board jump and skitter then settle down to the serious business of flying on water.

The wave heaped itself up like a mountain, sparkling, foam-flecked, blue-green and immense. He hovered there for a time, floating like a gull, then shifted his stance, and guided the board within. The wave curled above and around him like a stained-glass window, light greenish-pale through its translucent surface, the vibrating air filled with misty droplets and a sonorous, hissing rumble. Almost upright, now, hair whipping back, he descended the slick wall, at one point reaching a hand out to brush his fingertips across the warm water, like caressing the face of a lover.

At the bottom, another shift; automatic, unthinking. He cut back, rising again, lifted up along the wide, gusty tunnel like a hawk riding thermals. A long, exhilarating ride, with everything else forgotten till the wave slew itself against the shore, tunnel collapsing around him in crash and roar and dazzle, and strong, wet surge.

He struggled upright, spitting sand and salt water, reeled back the cart-wheeling board, and slapped hands with Alan. Then they leapt in again, sprint-paddling out to do it all over. Got only three more rides, but they were good ones. Water, in whatever form, was the cure for everything.


	15. Chapter 15: Shore Break

15

It was nearly too dark to read. TinTin glanced up from her book, warned first by a surge of external fear, then a faint ruffle of thought; the bounced-back image of herself on the sand, unarmed and helpless. Dropping Brian Greene's masterwork, the girl vaulted to her feet, whirling in midair like a cat, to confront three men with dark glasses and taut, expressionless faces.

The shoulder holsters bulging beneath their flowered shirts, and the small ear pieces they wore revealed that the visitation was anything but friendly, or accidental. TinTin took a swift back-step. Unarmed, yes; helpless... _hardly._ Over the roar of surf and land breeze the lead gunman said something about 'official business' and 'questioning', putting forth a hard, peremptory hand.

Starting at the pit of her belly, and growing like ice along her spine, the knowledge that these men intended the coldest, most business-like harm imaginable made her duck the grab and defend herself. All at once, she lashed out beyond the primitive blocks she'd taught herself to build and maintain. Like a whip-crack, the world filled with noisy, stabbing thoughts, most of the nearer ones directed aggressively at her. They wanted to capture her, _and _the boys, and then...

Untutored, TinTin had no subtlety. All she could do was wield power like a knotted club, smashing at the source of her sudden anguish, and calling desperately for help.

The men weren't conscious long enough, even, to clutch at their heads. They simply collapsed in thudding gouts of scattered sand. An instant later, Gordon pelted up from the shore, bleeding copiously. Startled by her summons, he'd fallen off his board, surfacing just in time to have the thing nail the back of his head. Alan hastened along just behind him, looking confused. He wasn't accustomed to being whistled up like a dog. He stared at the pile of felled gunmen, then over at the beach gate, which stood wide open in the bruised-purple twilight, the guard house seeming terribly still and quiet. For something to do, he folded a bandage out of TinTin's beach towel, and held it to the back of his brother's head. Stitches, for sure; at least five.

"Uh... guys?" Alan ventured uneasily, blue eyes wide and worried. "What's going on?"

TinTin's head hurt so blindingly (and the echoing throb from Gordon's bloody cut didn't help matters) that all she could manage was,

"Home, please. _Quickly_," ...only half aloud. Abandoning everything but the book, they headed for the distant gate.

The mess in the guard hut... pathetic contortions, spattered blood and ragged bullet holes, phone off the hook in a terrified death-grip... backed TinTin's plea for speed. Gordon hit his wrist comm, while Alan pulled the phone loose, and called for an ambulance.


	16. Chapter 16: Trouble

16

On their way to the vehicle maintenance bay, armed with his altered gun and a medi-kit, John did his damndest to coordinate a fast and dirty 'intervention', having Five generate a computerized likeness (one _not _pounding along a corridor, covered in flash-fried dust) through which he relayed hisinstructions. He and Pete arrived at the giant hangar to find Dr. Bennet working on Roger, who'd been shot. Fortunately for the Marine, his survival suit had treated the bullet strike as a micrometeorite and swelled instantly shut, applying pressure, generating a localized electric field, and increasing the oxygen mix.

Nevertheless, there was more to be done. As she pulled off the man's right glove and shoved back his suit arm and liner sleeve, Linda told him,

"Find something to focus on, Roger; Medi-kit's here. I'm going to extract and suture."

He was transferred to the crane floor, allowing her to work in peace while Pete and John took over reconfiguring _Endurance_. The doctor sprayed a local anesthetic and began probing the blackened wound. Dermal, sub-cutaneous and musculo-skeletal trauma, bleeding, swelling, burned tissue, scattered bone chips and shreds of damaged periosteum... Not good, by any means, but treatable.

The object of Roger's focus, meanwhile, lowered her almond eyes to the deck and radiated a faint, becoming blush. Linda was far too busy to notice.

...Apply antiseptic and broad-spectrum bacteriophage... scalpel off the necrotic tissue, insert gauze to wick away blood and lymph...

Cho would have helped, but Linda muttered tightly that she'd be best off distracting the big Marine, whose breath hissed like a bellows at each sizzling pass of the laser scalpel.

...Cauterize blood vessels and cleanse..., more anesthetic to kill the reflexive tensing which threatened to block her access to the flattened bullet... It had punctured his lower biceps, lodging against the humerus. Technically, not a difficult extraction. She used a surgical-grade 'smart tool', a pair of shape-memory tweezers with a computer chip that allowed them to alter form, texture and grip strength in response to conditions. Handy, and very skillfully wielded. She was very calm; very slow and precise, tugging gently with one hand while cauterizing with the other. A smell filled the little chamber that Linda did her best to block out. Frying meat.

Recalling an operation of his own, John attended to the procedure with the back of his mind, focusing most of his concentration on _Endurance_, Cindy Taylor, and the 'intervention'. Then Five dropped the other shoe. More grim news, from Tahiti, this time. _Dammit!_

Four separate, coordinated assaults; not particularly smooth, or well-planned, but dangerous. (John had a strong hunch, too, that the objective wasn't what it seemed.) People had been critically injured, first in a possibly related plane crash, then at a once secure location. Only this time, the target had been the kids: Gordon, Alan and TinTin.

'_Fine,'_ he thought, typing away at his uplink with Five, _'You want to play hardball, Mister, keep on pitching. I like games, too.'_

In that age and time, nobody's communications were entirely secure. Not from him. A fast sweep and Bayesian filter culled the tangle of messages down to a few likelies, from which his computer selected the most suspicious.

As Dr. Bennet was bandaging up her patient, John listened in on the top three candidates, finally pegging his quarry from certain repeated phrases. Code, almost certainly... And absolutely not good enough to confuse an aroused and angry John Tracy. He listened harder, helping Roger off the deck and down a lift to the bright-painted boarding gantry.

"Five," he subvocalized, as the crew hustled themselves aboard the altered spaceship, suited up and strapped in, "Get a message to Father and Scott, using my image. Tell them that all three situations are under control, and that the attacks do not, repeat with emphasis, _not _originate with WorldGov, but that somebody's sure trying hard to make it look that way. Someone wants to stir up a confrontation, reasons unknown."

Unknown, and deeply troubling. The crew very much needed to get their sleek sitting duck off the launch pad and back on the wing, before anything worse happened.

"Jam the targeted frequency," he continued, in a voice that traveled no further than his own throat. As _Endurance _underwent an insanely abbreviated systems check, John continued, "I want every nexus on that comm grid isolated and overcome. Run it past Father, first, but instruct agents to protect themselves and innocent lives at all costs... and authorize use of deadly force."

'_Understood, John Tracy. Complying,' _she replied at his left wrist. And again... What a time to be leaving the damn planet.


	17. Chapter 17: City in the Sky

17

Atop the lofty _Pico de Aneto_, in the snow-dusted Spanish Pyrenees, a huge administrative complex spread itself from crag toicy crag. The headquarters of Earth's world government (for that's what it was) rated as one of the modern wonders of civilization. It had been built upon glittering spans of metal that, from a distance, looked something like a cross between a snowflake, and a vast spider web. Penelope had an office there, as did Jeff Tracy, and the American President.

Audience halls, offices, guest houses and hangars were built into the grey limestone mountainside, or else clung to the lacy fretwork as homes and shops had once lined London Bridge. Transport pods slid along electrified rails like the beads on some three-dimensional abacus, ferrying diplomats, secretaries, guards and ambassadors from one terribly important meeting to the next. For a center of power, the complex was whimsically beautiful, gleaming in the ruddy light of dawn like a dew-gemmed web strung between fence posts.

The very best offices, with the most breath-catching views, were at center span, where you could look upward at stabbing peaks, then down again through an eel's-nest of shifting clouds, at the azure lake and green valley below. The other chambers (more securely placed, perhaps, but undoubtedly duller) twisted long, dreary miles into the mountain's riddled flanks.

It was known officially as the "World Unity Complex", and was actually anything _but._ WorldGov's hold on power was tenuous at best, and constantly being challenged by its supposedly docile member states. The ancient Middle Kingdom of China, in particular, gave the World President hair-tugging fits, for the Chinese took their assimilation no better than the proud Arabs had, or the rebellious Americans. It was a terribly shallow accord, held together by little more than prayer and sticking plaster, or so it often seemed.

That morning, with the President at a televised press-conference, and many thousands of bureaucrats swarming through the governmental hive, something happened. A huge aircraft banked through the northeastern pass, (survivors later described the craft as dark green or grey, with the number '2' painted on its hull in bright yellow... or had it been white...?) leveled out just a bit, then roared toward the World Unity Complex's delicately trestled span. Here and there, people with windows stopped stirring their coffee to point, setting down newspapers, and half-rising for a better look, chairs squeaking back across polished slate floors.

'_International Rescue? Here?' _

Some joked nervously of landslides and freak storms, others mentioned terrorists, but no one was seriously worried. Despite the Defense Department's stance on illegal technology, the Thunderbirds were viewed by most as well-meaning vigilantes; outside the law, but still _of _it.

Then came the missiles, at least ten, fired by the big green plane as it pulled a sudden hard bank, exposing a rounded belly studded with gun turrets and missile tubes. There wasn't time to react or seek shelter, beyond diving under desks and tables. The vapor-plumed weapons struck bridge and mountainside with abrupt, ground-rupturing force, sending avalanches of metal and rock and mangled flesh cascading to the lake below. Miles of tunnel collapsed immediately, trapping thousands and killing others outright. The burning bridge folded like a paper fan, titanium-alloy struts groaning as they twisted slowly apart. Transport cars plummeted. People fell, or jumped to escape the flames. Black smoke, cindered paper and choking rock-dust filled the air; all of it on camera. Heard from a safe distance, over live video feed, the terrified shrieking was more of a long, whispered sigh.

The aircraft circled once; slowly, as if examining its handiwork. Then, mission accomplished, it sped away through the narrow pass, leaving agony and devastation in its wake. And now, when the desperate survivors cried _"International Rescue", _it wasn't a call for help, but a savage, blood-fueled curse.

_A mysterious broadcast a few hours later, heard all over the world, and beyond:_

"The City in the Sky and the Jewel of the Sea shall fall, and the Chariot of Man's Pride be struck down with fire, raining death upon all who worship the Machine. Earth will once more be free!"


	18. Chapter 18: Escape Velocity

18

It seemed to take forever for the tow sled to pull _Endurance_ out of her maintenance bay, and back to the American launch hangar. The Moon Station's main generator had failed, causing lights to flicker, and machinery to freeze. A host of auxiliary systems tried to take up the slack, but the going remained slow, and perilous.

Somehow, in jarring fits and starts, _Endurance _reached the hangar. As Pete dickered with mission control, John began prepping the vertical takeoff rockets. They'd never before been fired, having been assembled in orbit, then mated to the craft under less-than-ideal circumstances. Almost immediately, he received warnings; a hot, tingling flare from his wrist clear up to the back of his head, and a blinking galaxy of red instrument lights.

"What the hell...?" _From bad, to worse, to goddam nightmare._

"Thruster damage?" Pete enquired calmly, after signaling a private frequency. John glanced over and nodded, checking his facts with 5 before replying.

"Section C's VTOL rockets have been tampered with. Two of them have holes knocked in their fuel lines, and some wiring's been jerked loose. Amateurish as hell, but effective."

"Okay...," McCord's blue eyes narrowed thoughtfully, his expression nearly lost in helmet-glass reflections. "...let's work the problem, one step at a time. We still gotta take off. What've we got left that'll push us off the launch pad without blowing up?"

He didn't ask how John knew _exactly_ what was wrong with section C. Like the glove-altered gun, Tracy's unexplained 'insight' was a life saver. Leave it at that.

He listened closely as the pilot responded,

"Section A: thruster # 3 is green, and 1 and 2 can be gimbaled downward to give us some additional lift. Section D: #17's got some steering capability. Enough, put together, to get us clear... but she'll handle like a bitch till we're high enough to fire main engines."

On Earth, with its much deeper gravity well, the plan would have failed. Lunar conditions were different, though. No air resistance, one-sixth gravity, and a much kinder thrust-to-weight ratio. All they needed was 1.72 miles per second, with distance to crossover calculated at 23,860 miles. Doable, but only just. Pete gave him a brief nod.

"Into every life, a little rain must fall, baby; and the climate around here's getting real unhealthy. Let's do it."

Muttering something about a 'damn monsoon', John made the necessary adjustments, checking the details out with Houston, IMS and Five. Despite all his busy-work talk, Commander Riley himself showed up at hangar control, giving them a quick salute through the launch room window. Pete returned the gesture with a warm smile.

"IMS, _Endurance: _Farewell, folks, and God bless. We'll be back to finish those beers in 8 months."

Riley chuckled, his hand on a seated hangar tech's dusty shoulder. At the young woman's keyed-in command, air began howling out of the cavernous launch bay.

"We shall expect you," the base commander replied, adding, slyly, "Title something suitably imposing after me, and you'll have your choice of libations."

A red warning light flicked on: atmosphere evacuated. Under Riley's hawk-like supervision, the overhead doors began to open. Space..., hard, black, and monstrously cold..., waited just beyond.

"Molson or Dos Equis gets you a crater, pal. Serve Miller Light again, though, and it'll be the _'Philip C. Riley Memorial Pebble'._"

"Noted and logged, old friend. God speed."

The suspect thrusters were off-line, section C entirely shut down, and the hangar doors wide open. All was as safe as the powers that be could make it. All John had to do now was thread a needle at arm's length, wearing oven mitts. _Just another day at the office. _Shaking his head, he verified systems one last time, and mourned the lost drinks.

"Too bad about the beer," the young pilot commented. "It's going to be a long eight months."

Pete surveyed the comforting proportion of green-to-red on his status board. Then he okayed the launch, adding with a sideways little smile,

"Goddam alcoholic!"

"Only in my spare time," John replied, as Mission Control ( in possession of news the crew hadn't heard yet) gave their own 'go for launch' signal. Then, "Brace yourselves, people. Might get a little rough."

Small hatches along the hangar's rock walls had opened up, revealing high-pressure nozzles primed to release explosion-dampening gel. In the event of catastrophic engine failure, the sealed crew compartment could also be ejected free. That was Pete's department, though. John's business was flying the ship. With a deep breath, he triggered the burns.

Thrusters 3 and 17 went off at once with matching hoarse roars. 1, 2 and 15, gimbaled so that their thrust was directed as nearly downward as possible, joined the draconic chorus, shaking _Endurance _like a badly-pegged tent in a hurricane. The opening, two hundred yards overhead, with clearance on all sides amounting to less than fifteen feet, seemed to possess the generous dimensions of a microchip. Pete clamped his hand on the cabin eject lever, just in case.

Slowly, the ship began to rise, nose-first and yawing drunkenly from right to left. Unbalanced thrust. John concentrated ferociously on the distant threshold, fighting to keep _Endurance_ from striking the walls as she lurched upward.

_Like trying to parallel park a crash-diving jet..._

Pete called out maneuvering data in rapid, snapped bursts, building a picture in John's head to augment the blaring collision sensors, nav computer, and his seat-of-the-pants feel for their wobbling ascent. Juggling five differently-powered thrusters at once, John cursed quietly in every language from Chiricahua Apache to FORTRAN.

He heard McCord's comments without being consciously aware of them, sunk brainstem-deep into flying the dangerously pitching vessel. The entire universe became ship, walls, and vectored numbers; adjusting controls to still a sudden lunge, or quiet a threatening shudder. Then, dark and beautiful and blessedly wide open, space flowered around them once more.


	19. Chapter 19: Decisions

_Apologies for the length, and the questionable Spanish. It's the only language I spoke until age 4, but 4-year olds aren't very grammatical._

19

_-Pass the word, from gun to gun, this will be a firing run.-_

The situation in Jeff's plushly decorated office was already chaotic when the kids arrived. Gordon had been patched up by a Tahitian ambulance crew, but he'd still had to hand the stick to Alan once they were off the ground and covered by Shadowbot. He'd slept most of the way home, troubled by dreams of terrified children and rising, bloodied waters.

At the office, Gordon took a few painkillers, trying to find a position to rest his head that didn't leave it feeling like a football kicked back into play by some embittered and vengeful goalie. He barely noticed Alan rushing forward, waving his hands about and shouting; but TinTin did.

Jeff, Scott and Virgil, Cindy Taylor, Brains and Kyrano all turned to look as Alan pelted up, bursting with news.

"Guys, you won't _believe_ what happened today!"

He was going to tell, she realized; was going to announce to everyone what had happened to their attackers on the beach. And then..., they'd hate her and the illegitimate power she barely knew how to control. The mental blocks cracked again, like the great, heavy lid on a searing eye. Scarcely aware of what she did, the girl reached out, figuratively drawing her 'fingers' through the part of Alan's mind responsible for sleep. Within three steps, he was yawning mightily and reeling toward the fire-side couch, muttering,

"It... was... _so_ weird..."

He dropped to the cushions an instant later, felled like a tranquilized ox. Mildly concerned, Scott started forward, but the alert siren cut him off in mid-step, its shrill, keening wail punctuated by strobe-like flashes.

Scott pivoted, the younger boy entirely forgotten. He stalked back to the desk as Jeff keyed on the video monitor, displaying a scene from hell.

Everyone but Alan stood rooted to their places, shocked speechless by the images flashing across the screen from _WNN- Espana_. Some sort of big, dark cargo jet (a modified C-12 Titan, maybe) swept into the frame from the left, cutting toward what could only be the World Unity Complex. It was flying dangerously low, evading radar. And... was that a _'2' _painted on the side? Why would anyone try to disguise a warplane as a Thunderbird?

As the team looked on, utterly bewildered, the mock Thunderbird executed a sudden hard bank at less than half a mile from the U.C.'s glittering web. Scott reacted first, understanding the point of the maneuver better than anyone else present.

"_Look out!"_ He warned uselessly, as wave after wave of missiles, launched in groups of three, thundered away from the plane. Blossoms of flame shook mountainside and trestle alike, savaging beauty the way a stupid thug with a handful of rocks might shatter a stained-glass window.

A reporter's high-pitched voice cut in, describing the terrible events in loud, frantic Spanish.

"_... las sospechas, 'Rescue International', asi los mataron mas que dos mil personas!"_

As the Unity Complex collapsed before their horrified eyes, trapping and injuring thousands, the reason for the disguised plane came terribly clear. Scott rounded on his father.

"Dad, I'm on my w..."

"_No." _

That single word, like the sharp stroke of an ax, cut cleanly through all the half-formed plans and hasty conjectures. Startled, Scott back-stepped.

"But, Dad..., they need us out there! There's no way in hell the regular disaster crews can cope with this!"

"I said, _no, _Scott! Nobody launches! Didn't you hear your brother?"

A sudden, jabbing forefinger indicated John's portrait comm.

"Someone is trying to force us into a fight! It's a trap, a frame-up! If you do as they expect and rush to the scene, you'll be arrested, or shot."

Jeff's brown eyes snapped, his brows drawing together over a tense and worried scowl.

"Stand down, Mister, and I mean _now! _We have people working for us at the highest levels. Give them a chance to straighten this mess out, and _then _we'll go in, but not before. Understood?"

It was a contest of wills, father against son, and a very near thing. In the end, ingrained habit and military training were all that kept Scott from heading off. Breathing heavily, fists clenched at his sides, he waited a full minute before responding,

"Understood, Sir..., but all the blood spilled while we delay action is on all our hands, forever."

Too stressed to care how he sounded, Jeff pointed to a chair.

"Sit down!" He commanded.

Scott reddened, but refused to budge.

Gordon attended to all this for a few moments, then noticed a sudden absence, the barest movement of a hangar access door. _Virgil._

Not giving himself time to think, the red-haired boy backed swiftly away from the gathering storm clouds, then sped through the door in his brother's wake.

"_Virgil!"_ He caught up with the big pilot at Thunderbird 2's boarding gantry, where Virgil was tripping the circuit breakers that powered the hangar alarm system. "What're y' doin' ?"

He'd arrived out of breath and achy, each rapid, jarring step another brick flung at the back of his throbbing head. Virgil shot him a bleak look, at once baffled, hurt and angry. Then, turning, he returned to his task.

"I'm launching," he replied in a low, hoarse whisper. "Those people need help, and I'm going."

Gordon found himself assisting with the breakers, then disabling the monitor-room override system the old-fashioned way; by removing a cover panel and jerking out half the wires. All at once, a swarm of airborne mini-robots coalesced around the two brothers, seeming to materialize from clear air. They scanned the pair thoroughly, verifying their identities many times over. It was rank vandalism, but as family was doing it, the security robots had no authority to interfere, or report.

"Did y' not hear father?" Gordon persisted, following Virgil across the ringing gantry. "It's a bloody _trap_. They'll be waitin' t' arrest you the instant you touch down!"

"Gordon," Virgil had paused by the forward access hatch, his hand on 2's dark green, swelling hull. "I don't expect you to understand. They didn't _pick _you. They picked me... and _her..._ to frame for this, and I'm not having it." His hand stroked the curving metal, as though he were trying to calm a skittish horse.

"I won't have people being afraid of her, Gordon, or let people die thinking we killed them. I've _got _to go."

And Virgil shifted his gaze again, the question in his eyes, rather than his words. Gordon nodded.

"Right, then. Let's be off."

At once grateful, and hesitant (it was no small thing he was planning), his older brother objected,

"We'll probably get caught, Kiddo."

"Not without makin' a damn fine match of it," Gordon replied firmly. "An' not before doin' our jobs."

Forgetting all about his younger brother's head wound (Gordon didn't), Virgil hauled him in for a swift, rough hug.

"Right. Good to go. We'll be needing the Mole, then, the plasma cutters, and about a ton of good luck."

_Back at the office:_

Jeff had been on the phone, speaking in low, urgent tones on one of the secure lines, when the launch alert came. Slamming shut the mouthpiece, he whipped around to face the monitor. Nothing. No data or images came up, just a rapid, beeping flash on his desk panel indicating that one of the 'Birds was taking flight.

"What's going on here? Where's Virgil?" Then, as the elder Tracy realized what had happened, "Give me an outside camera shot. The cliff side. _Hurry!"_

TinTin complied, her slim fingers flying over the tech console. An outside shot appeared just in time to reveal Thunderbird 2's huge, blunt nose emerging from the open cliff face. In the soft, buttery gleam of flood lights and runway beacons, she seemed to ripple with muscle like a stalking cat.

"_Dammit!"_ Jeff growled, slamming his hands down on the desk top. "Stop the launch! _Override!"_

TinTin tried, but the signal from console to hangar had been blocked, somehow.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Tracy, but I can't!"

"Never mind," he snapped, reaching across the anxious girl to hit a particular comm button.

"Virgil! I know you can hear me! Stop, _now_, and return to my office, immediately. Virgil, answer me!"

No response. Thunderbird 2 and her pilot were as deaf and unyielding as stone gods. As the palm trees swayed gracefully away, and the enormous cargo lifter rumbled out to her launch ramp, Scott came to stand beside his father.

"He's not alone," the dark-haired young man said, quietly. While his father's worried eyes searched the room, he added, "Gordon's missing, too."

Jeff's hands clenched into fists on the comm panel. Then, broad shoulders slumping, head down, he replied,

"Go after your brothers, Scott. Bring them back, if you can. If not... do whatever you can to help, and... for the love of Heaven... be _careful."_

Already turning, the tall fighter pilot nodded.

"Yes, Sir. On my way."

Halfway to the access door, Cindy seized him tight, then tried to shake him. Not a very effective maneuver, for he out-massed her considerably.

"Come back safe, damn you! I've got a plan of my own to help you guys out, but you've _got _to promise that you'll..."

A swift kiss silenced her.

"Run it past dad first, Hon, and be gentle. He's just had his butt handed to him by Virgil." And then, for the first time, "I love you. Gotta go."

He was through the door by the time Cindy recovered enough to whisper,

"Okay..., I love you, too."

People got married for all sorts of reasons, in her experience. Sometimes for sex, sometimes for money, sometimes just because they were tired of being alone, or wanted to make headlines. Not Scott Tracy, though. He was the genuine article, and, for some reason, this both touched and worried her.

"Mr. Tracy...?" She ventured, hurrying back over to where Jeff sat staring at the monitor, typing commands onto a keyboard while holding a whispered argument with someone over his cell phone.

He looked up, hardly managing to conceal his irritation.

"Miss Taylor," he growled, "I don't mean to be rude, but..."

She lifted a hand, feeling more like a news hound at a press conference than a bride-to-be addressing the family patriarch.

"Hear me out, please, Mr. Tracy. I've got an idea, but I need a little help. The big problem here, and the reason something like _that...,_" she stabbed a finger at the wall comm, where footage of the attack played over and over again to increasingly hostile narration, "...could be taken seriously, is because of all this obsessive secrecy. Your own paranoia just leaped up and bit you on the ass, Sir."

Jeff cut off the call, and stopped typing. Getting to his feet, he said,

"Miss Taylor, I don't have the time or inclination to sit around fielding insults. I am not responsible for what's happened to WorldGov headquarters."

"Nobody said you were! Calm down, and listen. I said that your secrecy was a big part of the problem. If almost no one knows what Thunderbird 2 really looks like, this kind of mud is going to stick. What you need is a way to make yourselves seen and heard, without compromising security. You with me, so far?"

Cautiously, Jeff nodded, sitting back in his leather seat, with steepled fingers. She had his attention. Pushing the dark hair from her face, Cindy continued.

"If I can set up someplace, maybe in one of the hangars, and you can broadcast a signal for me to the San Francisco affiliate, I can help get the word out about what's really going on. Jake 'll air it... I think. Whether he believes me, or not, it's news, and it'll be a station exclusive. What do you think?"

Jeff looked over at Brains. The engineer fidgeted nervously with his broken glasses. They'd fallen off the night stand, again, and got stepped on.

"It might w-work, Mr. ah..., Mr. Tracy. I c- can set up an untraceable b- broadcast, w- with M -Miss Taylor reporting, to, ah... to clear th- things up. I h- have to agree with th- the young lady, S- Sir. If w- we remain silent, th- the, ah... the lies will only s- spread, and we'll look even more s- suspicious."

Jeff's mouth flattened out. He ran a hand through his grey hair, then nodded, once.

"Very well. It's a go. You have my permission to use basic outline diagrams of all the 'Birds... but be careful what you say. We still don't know who's behind these attacks, and at this point, too much information is as dangerous as too little."

Hackenbacker nodded seriously, shaggy brown head bobbing comically on his skinny neck.

"W- we'll keep it within, ah... within parameters, Mr. Tracy. I p- promise you."

"Right," Jeff gave the mussed and rumpled scientist a bleak smile. "Do what you can, Brains." Then, turning to regard Cindy,

"I appreciate your help, Miss Taylor. Looks like you've found a way to boost your career _and_ make yourself an asset to the organization."

Cindy gave him a sugar-bright, utterly false smile. Thinking _'Jerk!' _she turned and followed Brains out of the room.

Jeff returned to his phone, monitor and keyboard, raising his voice briefly to call out,

"Kyrano, check to see that Mother and Jenny are all right; they might have been watching the news... and _somebody _wake Alan up!"

_Over the Moon:_

The shaking stopped when they shot through the Hangar doors and out into space, carried away from the surface by inertia, and a few last burns. The flight deck (roughly cylindrical, around 21 feet in length, and studded with instrumentation where it wasn't jammed with seats, controls and hang straps) fell into a sort of relieved, wobbly silence. Then,

"_Yes, _sir!" Pete exulted, grinning broadly, "that was some damn fine flying!" Anything that didn't actually kill them, at this point, seemed like a reason to celebrate. "Guess I'd better call Houston and tell them to warm up another crock of beans."

The fine mood didn't last very long. One of the video monitors lit up, automatically triggered by an emergency broadcast from a nearby communications satellite. Silence fell, unbroken by anything but the droning news feed, the hum and click of machinery, and the fitful buzz of warning lights.

"God Almighty...!" Roger breathed, hauling himself forward with his good arm. The others, already helmetless and ungloved, gathered round the view screen to stare.

Kim looked from Linda, to Pete, then over at Roger, who'd gone grey as volcanic ash.

"This... is not a show?" She ventured, her characteristic slight frown turning puzzled. "This is true?"

Linda nodded slowly, hand clamped to her mouth as though she were going to be ill. Like some dreadful nightmare, what seemed to be Thunderbird 2 dove across the screen and shot apart the U.C. Repeated many times, the strident, accusing words of a journalist...

'_...unprovoked attack by International Rescue..,'_ fell like hammer blows.

Pete looked over at John Tracy, torn with black doubt, and confusion.

Why _had _he brought a gun? Known precisely what hadhappened to Section C?

For his own part, John was unreadable, his beautiful face cold and remote.

"Oh, my God..., the Honor Guard!" Roger whispered brokenly. He'd done a stint on the President's elite Marine squad, and still had friends there.

"The president!" Linda interjected. "Was she there? Does anyone know?"

Nobody did. In point of fact, no one knew anything, including what they were to do next. Then came the faintly broadcast threat, hissing with static and malice:

"_The City in the Sky and the Jewel of the Sea shall fall, and the Chariot of Man's Pride be brought down with fire, raining death on all who worship the Machine. Earth will once more be free!" _

It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out what was meant by 'The Chariot of Man's Pride', but 'Jewel of the Sea'...

"Alpha," John murmured, hardly aware that he was speaking, "They'll go after the Sea Base, next."

Pete's expression was bleak with suspicion as he demanded,

"How do you figure?"

The pilot glanced over, saying bitterly,

"Because it's beautiful, and unnatural. Like _Endurance_. Mankind doesn't belong down there, _or_ up here... so it's got to be destroyed."

Then, quite evenly,

"Pete, we're screwed. This configuration wasn't designed for Earth. Even with all the engine problems, we'd be safer going on to Mars than trying to return. We're sitting on a giant anti-matter reactor. If we're shot down..."

The mission commander closed his eyes, briefly, then reopened them.

"World War III, all over again," he finished quietly. "And Houston hasn't got anything for us, either. All I'm getting is 'stand by'."

He looked around at his crew, all of them waiting for him to come up with the answers. Well... that's why he earned the 'big bucks', right? To make the damn decisions? Resolutely, Pete unwrapped a stick of Juicy Fruit. Brain food. All at once, he said briskly,

"Okay, it's up to us. Linda, Kim, check out the supplies. I want to know exactly what we've got. I'm talking basic survival stuff; food, water, medicine, O2. What, and how much. Go."

They went. He turned his attention to the Marine, who still seemed to be in shock, staring at the government newscast.

"Thorpe, turn that shit off, and snap out of it. I need you firing on all cylinders, Marine."

"Yeah, Pete... sorry." Roger pushed himself high enough to reach the controls with a brief tap to the pilot's seat. The view screen cut off, and Roger pulled himself together.

"Fire away. What d' you need me to do?"

He wasn't over it, but he was trying, and that would have to be enough.

"Get down to section C, run a diagnostic, and repair the damage. Fast and dirty, chewing-gum-and-baling-wire field job..., whatever it takes, so long as it'll hold up. Got it?"

"Yes, Sir, Skipper. I'm on it."

Like most Marines, Captain Thorpe appreciated useful work, and a strong commander. Darting through the filtered air with quick shoves from his uninjured arm, and occasional light kicks to furniture and padded walls, he shot off to section C. One-armed or not, he'd get the job done.

Then it was just Pete and John.

"Three flight plans, Tracy; Mars, far-side lunar parking orbit, and... if all else fails... a spot on Earth where we have some prayer of landing, without taking out half a city if there's a 'malfunction'."

He waited, poised for anything, but John merely nodded, and set to work. Hoping like hell that Tracy's distracted air and lack of response didn't mean the worst... that the young pilot (whom he'd suspected for some time was a member of International Rescue) wasn't somehow in on all this... Pete made another attempt to get some answers from Mission Control.

A little over an hour later, the crew met again, drifting back to the flight deck to regroup and debrief. Pete spoke first, after everyone had arranged themselves in whatever orientation took their fancy.

"Okay, folks," he began, chewing furiously away at his wad of gum, "the news from Houston is: there is no news. I'm getting the goddam runaround, while they try to come up with a plan. Well, I aim to beat 'em to the punch. Ladies, how 're the supplies shaping up? Have we got enough to reach Mars?"

Floating sideways, Dr. Kim's gentle nod set her to bobbing slightly in mid air. Without the downward pull of gravity, her face was a touch puffy (but so was everyone else's), and her black hair fanned out behind the elastic band like a peacock's tail.

"There is just enough, Pete," she said, "If three of us are suspended for the flight."

"Two can make it, if they eat and drink sparingly. After that, what's been dropped at the landing site will tide us over," Linda clarified, her tone brisk and business-like. Her brown, wavy hair might have turned into modern art, but the doctor's attitude was as professional as ever.

"The other three will need to sleep off the trip in cryogenic suspension. Or... _four_ of us could go down, while someone stays awake to mind the store and wait for rescue, Pete. Just another option."

"Thanks. At this juncture, I'm considering ideas from all over the field and out in the bleachers. Parking lot 'll be next. Thorpe, how 're we looking?"

"Replaced what I could, and patched what I couldn't," Roger responded, wincing a little as an attempted shrug jarred his injured arm. The anesthetic was wearing off.

"It's a mess down there, Skipper. She still won't win any beauty contests, but she's FMC." (meaning 'Fully Mission Capable')

He looked haggard, though, and nearly as distracted as Tracy, who kept glancing down at his watch. Checking the time? For what, Pete wondered. _What was he waiting for?_

"Tracy," McCord snapped, more sternly than he'd meant to, "Care to join us?"

"I'm listening."

The last time Tracy had got this withdrawn, about three weeks prior to launch, Pete had taken him out to the shore for a long conversation, and a game of catch. You did more soul-searching than most people supposed, tossing and fielding a baseball.

"Good. So, stop calculating, and give us the skinny on the flight plans. We still go for Mars?"

A legitimate question, as they were off course, and early. But John nodded.

"It can be done. I've already worked the figures. It'll mean a couple extra orbits to line up with Argyre, is all."

"Earth?"

A strange expression flickered briefly in the pilot's violet eyes. He seemed torn. Very quietly, Tracy repeated,

"Not advisable in our current situation, Pete. Even if we weren't actively being targeted, _Endurance_ can't handle that kind of gravity in this configuration. She'll break up, and returning to IMS would be nearly as hazardous. Mars, or thefar side, from where I'm sitting."

"Well...," Pete replied, scratching his scalp, "you play the hand you're dealt, folks. Now: I want a decision before Houston calls back, and I want it unanimous, 'cause we're in this together, start to finish. Mars, or lunar orbit? Go, or hide out? What's it gonna be?"

He wasn't particularly surprised when everyone, even Tracy, voted _go._ After all, might as well do the job they'd set out to, while the number-crunchers figured things out, Earth-side.

Pete gave them a quick smile.

"Momma didn't raise no cowards. I'll call Houston and Riley, and tell them what we've decided. Tracy, plug in the numbers. Linda, get the freezer bags ready."

Bennet pursed her lips a bit at his choice of words, but she nodded, just the same.

"I'll need to run bio-scans to adjust the cryotube settings, Pete. Who's going under?"

"Thorpe, Kim... and Tracy."

Linda frowned, genuinely startled. John paused in his data entry to look over, but there was nothing, _absolutely nothing, _in his manner or bearing to ease the mission commander's trouble. Pete would have given an awful lot just then for a baseball, a couple of battered gloves, and a quiet stretch of beach.

"Pete... are you sure?" Dr. Bennett probed, honest concern in her brown eyes. "The pilot..."

"...Can be defrosted in plenty of time to bring us in. Once the numbers are plugged into the computer, the ship 'll fly herself. Medical emergencies, on the other hand, are unpredictable, and I'd rather not have to deal with a bunch of refrigerator mummies without a doctor standing by."

Not the entire truth, but close enough to table the subject.

At last, with everything set, and Houston in agreement, the crew strapped in again. Three swift orbits and a couple of short burns got them oriented properly, and then _Endurance_'s heart and soul, her P-bar engine, was fired.

At a dual command from Pete and John, the most minute and transitory of holes opened in the magnetic containment bottle. A stream of antiprotons tore free of their prison, entering the linear accelerator portion of the engine, where they were whipped to near light-speed, and collided with an equal number of protons. The resulting matter-antimatter annihilation liberated energies not seen since the big bang.

_Endurance _was blasted for Mars at speeds that flirted shamelessly with ruin. In truth, there wasn't a faster ship in the solar system, and without their survival suits, the acceleration would have killed them all. None of the experimental animals survived, except for a hardy white rat they nicknamed 'Lucky', and a pair of Siamese fighting fish.

It wasn't until _Endurance _had settled into a constant (if still mind-bending) speed, that Linda placed her crew mates in suspended animation.

The process was complicated. Back in the ship's cramped med lab, John, Kim Cho and Roger stripped halfway out of their survival suits for a thorough bio-scan. Then, while the data were being entered, the three astronauts were triple dosed with a powerful cryoprotectant.

There was an oraldose, then a combination intravenous shot and sedative, with what surely had to be one of the largest needles John had ever seen. Then came the really fun part, with an even _bigger_ needle; the intramuscular injection.

"Okay," Linda told him, pinching up a fold of skin at his hip, "Grab hold of something, John, and try to relax."

The tranquilizer has started working already, but not so much that he couldn't annoy the doctor. Raising an eyebrow, he said,

"I don't even get a kiss, first?"

Linda brandished the giant needle at him. Unlike John, she wasn't experiencing a bloodstream full of chemical happiness.

"Sunshine, I can stick this thing pretty nearly anywhere. Do you _really _want to pull my chain, right now? Didn't think so. Now, shut up, get your mind out of the gutter, and take your medicine like a man!"

John decided right there that she moonlighted as a veterinarian, and had brought all her damn livestock equipment along. He wouldn't have been at all surprised had that monster needle emerged through his abdominal wall. Somehow, _'ouch' _didn't seem to quite cover it.

When he was thoroughly dosed, and growing rather queasy, Linda maneuvered him over to a wall harness and helped him strap in.

"All right," she said, bracing herself against the refrigerator to pat John's shoulder. "It'll take awhile for this stuff to work its way through, and it's got to get everywhere, even past the blood-brain barrier. You're going to feel a little sick and sleepy, but trust me, it's worth it. Without the anti-freeze, ice-crystals will rupture your cells like water balloons. I'll be back to check on you in fifteen minutes."

And with that, and another carefully braced pat, Linda handed herself out through the main hatch.

Roger and Kim Cho floated nearby in harnesses of their own, barely conscious. The Marine had reached out to give her hand a squeeze, and they'd simply kept hold. John found himself thinking blurrily of Penny, wondering if she was safe. Then it became too hard to think, so he stopped trying.

Sometime later (there was a burning at his wrist that was important, but he'd forgotten why), he jerked slightly awake. Someone held a bag to his face for him to be sick in. There were voices, and lights; a certain amount of jerking around, and he was moved, drifting down stream as helpless as a fallen leaf. At last, pushed flat against a padded surface of some kind, he lost the struggle for consciousness.

The thing about suspended animation was, it resembled freezing to death, without the trouble of actually dying. Permeated through and through with a dense, sugary 'antifreeze', the subject's body could be lowered to negative ten degrees Celsius and held there for years, halting non-essential body functions, and lowering others to the point of indetectability.

There was a certain element of risk, of course. Machinery sometimes failed, and not everyone was able to tolerate the cryoprotectant shots. Sometimes, people died. But there was another, more insidious, threat.

Just as when a person froze to death, the long sleep of suspended animation was filled with comfortable illusion. You felt warm, and so very peaceful. Waves of euphoria hit that were terribly difficult to pull away from. Some people never woke up.

Linda hooked John to the cryo-tube's monitors. Noting that he'd begun fighting his way back to wakefulness, the doctor gave him another shot of sedative, watching alertly as the young pilot ceased twitching and relaxed. Before she could shut the unit (which resembled an upright tanning bed), Pete floated into the lab from the flight deck, handing himself rapidly along an overhead guide rail.

"Why don't you go finish up with Dr. Kim?" He suggested. "I'll keep an eye on Tracy till you get back."

Glancing at her watch, Linda realized that Cho was due for her final temperature set. She smiled gratefully.

"Thanks, Pete. Trying to do too much at once, I guess. I won't be a minute."

Then Bennett propelled herself across the lab, up to where Kim's tube beeped and flashed against the overhead. Pete waited a few moments. Once she was safely out of ear shot, and busy, he pulled himself down and whispered,

"Tracy...? Can you hear me?"

The answer, sluggish and delayed, was barely audible.

"Mm-hmm..."

"Do you know who I am?"

"Sure... s' Pete."

So far, so good. The mission commander risked a glance at Linda. Still occupied. Taking a deep breath, and praying hard that the young man he'd flown with and trusted wouldn't fail the test, McCord asked another question.

"Tracy, did I.R. destroy the Unity Complex?"

"No..." Spoken drunkenly. "We wouldn'... do 'nthing like that."

_We? _He'd thought right, then. Deeply relieved, but still badly in need of answers, Pete continued.

"Do you know who did it?"

" 'S... tryin' to find out."

...And been interrupted, taken out of the fight, because his commander lost faith. Pete started to say something further, but the sudden movement of a monitor camera caught his eye. It had swung silently around to face him, its blinking red light aimed as squarely as a sniper's laser.

McCord had the sudden, uncomfortable sensation that he was being stared at. Someone... some_thing..._ didn't seem to like this line of questioning. The mission commander nodded in what he very much hoped was a non-threatening manner. John Tracy, it seemed, had a kick-ass guardian angel.

Keeping one eye on the camera, which followed his every move with tiny adjustments of its own, he leaned down far enough to say,

"I'm sorry, buddy. Sorry I ever doubted. Won't happen again. You sleep it off, and we'll see you in three weeks."

John didn't hear him. He heard and felt nothing at all as the lid boomed shut and chilly fog filled the narrow box.


	20. Chapter 20: This Just In

_If I may insert myself for a moment, I will probably go with Clarie's suggested "short and regular" chapters for a time, rather than monsters like the last one. To Tikatu, Darkhelmet, et al., thanks for the comments and inspirations. The feedback provides guidance._

20

_WNN: The studio Green Room-_

Jake Hall had been multi-tasking, supervising the 'miking' of a local terrorism expert for her appearance on the _'WorldGov: Under Attack!' _broadcast, as well as approving a series of economic impact graphics and preparing to divorce his latest wife (a 22-year old, high maintenance, mistake).

Then an intern came pounding through the door, clutching a data board, her corn-rowedmane flying. She was out of breath, having run two floors to reach him, and Jake (in whom hope sprang eternal) was once more in love.

"Mr. Hall..., Sir..., Ray... thought you might... want to see... this. He'll put... it on... if you... okay it, Sir."

Jake gave her his best _'Great White Shark' _smile, and sucked in his paunch.

"Call me Jake...," (reading her hang tag) "... Elise."

Taking the data board, he glanced at a video being streamed to their web server from parts unknown. Taylor, with an exclusive, God love her. She was once more, officially, un-fired.

"Yep. Put her on. Have Ride introduce the segment, then put Dr. Kramer on directly after, for commentary... You'll do fine, Doctor. Just make with the scholarly confidence. Nobody understands half of what you people say, anyway. Check the Teleprompters if you run out of material." This last bit over one shoulder, as he headed back to the studio.

"So...," Jake continued casually, glancing at the young intern, "...got plans for dinner?"

Peter Ride was the station's head anchorman. He introduced Cindy, then listened closely to her report, nodding his blond head in all the appropriate places and leaning forward with just the right note of near-authentic interest. Not that she needed much prompting.

"... now been given unprecedented access to International Rescue headquarters," she was saying, evidently from some highly-secret hangar complex. "In an effort to prove themselves innocent of the charges leveled against them, the high brass at International Rescue have agreed to allow a broadcast, and a number of interviews."

Leaning across a tech console, Jake tapped the screen over the cameraman's shoulder, muttering,

"Run a crawl across the bottom of the panel: _'WNN-San Francisco exclusive report: Live from Thunderbirds HQ',_ with updates on the situation in Spain, sports scores and stock quotes. Don't want anyone switching channels."

Before the camera-tech finished nodding, Jake was upright again, hissing,

"Charles!"

Melinda appeared straightaway, stuffing sound and camera equipment into a big, roomy shoulder bag.

"You rang, Boss?"

The angular tornado of a woman paused in her perpetual rushing to receive instruction.

"Man-on-the-street interviews," he announced. "Think variety and pathos. And take Elise with you. Good experience."

"Gotcha, Jake," Melinda replied, nodding vigorously. And then, in a knowing, friendly manner, "C' mon, Girl. I'll show you how it's done."

_Tracy Island:_

Brains manned the cameras while Cindy carried on talking (as she'd taken no time to put on the proper make-up, she looked rather washed out against the background of hissing pipes and thudding machinery, but most viewers agreed that the pallor gave her a look of gravity and depth).

"...Looking closely at the digital video, although it was shot from a distance, you can clearly see that the outline of the attacking plane doesn't match Thunderbird 2's," she said.

Someone (John, probably) had provided a split screen animated graphic of each Thunderbird in 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 order. Top, side and front views of all the 'Birds were included. Seen against the diagram, the fraud was obvious.

"The motives and identity of these terrorists can only be guessed at, Peter," She went on, quietly blessing John Tracy's matchless skill with computers, "...but their crude methods and publically broadcast threats have left little doubt that what they are _not..._ is International Rescue."

Alan was there. Seemingly oblivious to his recent acute nap, he longed desperately to be interviewed. Cindy was rather dubious, but Brains indicated that he could mask the boy's voice and features, and Alan promised...

"For real! I'll be, like, Joe Square-jaw, the top-gunning-est Thunderbird pilot there is! C' mon, _please! _Just let me be on TV!"

The station identification break was almost over. Hoping that she wasn't making a giant mistake, Cindy introduced Alan as one of the pilots of Thunderbird 3, and kept her questions basic.

He must have been channeling Scott, because Alan's So-Cal surfer dude accent all but vanished, and he morphed all at once into the sort of clean-cut boy scout/ fighter pilot that mothers everywhere dreamt of. His sheer, _'Aw, shucks, Ma'am,'_ earnestness had unattached females calling the station for months afterward.

Then TinTin and Gennine went on, the one as a mechanic, the other as a communications officer. They did just as well. Even through all the electronic distortion, the two managed to convey a sincere sense of IR's mission.

...And that was when the calls started coming in, the first one a complete shock.

"One moment, Cindy," Peter Ride interrupted, looking confused, "we have a caller... this isn't a hoax? Okay; Cindy Taylor..., ladies and gentlemen of the viewing audience, it looks like we've got His Royal (what is it...? Majesty? Highness?) His Majestic Highness, King Denys of, um... England. Your Highness, go ahead."

Though just an audio call, the warm, firm voice was instantly recognizable.

"Good afternoon, Peter, or late evening, as I suppose it must be, over there."

"Yes, Sir. It's dark already," Ride enlightened him, adding helpfully, "Time zones."

"Indeed. Dodgy business, altogether. But, the purpose of my call is very simply to reiterate what was stated in the letter I placed some weeks ago in the London Post; that Our land and people owe a debt of the greatest magnitude to the gallant men of International Rescue, two of whom I was privileged to meet and work with. And I mustsay, Peter, that _nothing _could persuade me that the two young gentlemen who provided such invaluable service to Our kingdom would _ever_ be associated with violence against the World Government. Such contemptible cowardice and masked treason seems rather more the purview of anarchists such as 'Red Path' and the CTA. International Rescue exists to save lives, not destroy them, and seems to have no political agenda whatever. I, for one, firmly believe that this deplorable incident is nothing more than a craven attempt to stir up chaos, by those who fatten on blood, and violence, and fear."

The anchorman blinked. Then, prompted off-camera, he said hurriedly,

"Powerful words, Sir. Thank you for your call. And now... Another one? Boy, howdy; look at that! And this one's from the moon, 20,000 miles away. 24,000? Right. From the International Moon Station, viewers, over 24,000 miles from Earth. Go ahead, caller."

Off screen, Cindy heard a crashing sound. Macy, or one of the other research clerks flinging her data board, no doubt.

It was the Moon Station commander, Phillip Riley, on full video. A little belatedly, text graphics with his name and position appeared on screen.

"Good day to you, Mr. Ride, and to your audience on Earth, as well. Having had abit of bother, here at IMS, I felt compelled to call with a personal insight on the nature of International Rescue." He hesitated, his dark brows lifting slightly.

"May I proceed?"

The WNN news anchor looked off to one side, no doubt saw Jake smiling and rubbing his hands together in ratings-fueled glee, and nodded his head.

"Go on, Captain."

Riley didn't bother correcting his error.

"Thank you, Peter. Approximately one year ago, the last of the Martian supply missions set off from Kennedy Space Center, and almost immediately experienced a dangerous malfunction during orbital reconfiguration. The command module failed to accept guidance data from Houston, _or _IMS. She couldn't lock on and, in fact, began spinning off into space, with two astronauts aboard. The commander and pilot would most certainly have perished, had not International Rescue intervened to establish an uplink, re-input guidance commands, and tow the craft back to safety. The mission and men were saved, due to the courage and commitment of the Thunderbirds. I must echo His Majesty, Peter, that it is not in the nature of a terrorist organization to preserve life, nor to successfully hide its true purpose for as long as IR has been in operation. What's happened is clear. They've been, as the Yanks would say, 'framed', to cover for something far deeper."

With a final nod, and a polite smile, he added,

"I thank you for the opportunity to speak my piece, Mr. Ride, and bid you, once more, good day."

More calls came in; from a Mexican bus driver, a retired Navy captain, a Senegalese missionary, a former shop clerkat the Starlight Tower, even the chief nuclear engineer at a Persian power plant, and the director of operations at Paris' De Gaulle Airport. The many nations and walks of life touched gave evidence of the Thunderbirds' complete disregard for race, creed, and politics.

As Cindy put it at the end of her segment,

"Without pay, or recognition.., often at terrifying risk to themselves, the Thunderbirds save people like _us_, when everyone else has given up hope. And folks... Maybe it's time we returned the favor, by extending a little trust, and a helping hand. Thanks, Peter: This is Cindy Taylor, reporting."

Hackenbacker cut off the cameras, and Cindy allowed herself to relax; for a moment, at least. She hadn't noticed Jeff standing in the shadows, and so was utterly unprepared for the sudden, brisk hug.


	21. Chapter 21: The Messenger

_Thanks, Barb!_

21

In a small, cluttered office, deep within the beltway powerhouse that was the US Senate, a certain freshman politician sat at his desk, watching the news. His thin, ascetic face was very still. Except for a flickering wall screen, jerky clock hands, and the colored fish drifting aimlessly around a small tank, nothing moved. An outside observer would have been hard-pressed to say whether the news-woman's report pleased him, or not.

In private, he wasted no energy on emotion. In public, he put on personas and moods to suit the situation; win the votes, clamber his way to real power... for a _cause._ Purity. Cleansing. Renewal. A return to what had been, and must be, again. A return to freedom. But not this day.

It seemed that the plan... his grandest yet... had failed. Agents had been captured, entire cells exposed, thanks to an adversary out of reach and damnably cunning. Though, not quite clever enough to locate the _true_ source of WorldGov's troubles.

No, the plan itself might fail, but the organization went on, its leader unrecognized. He toyed with a sharpened yellow pencil, and thought. The captured agents were no doubt being interrogated, but they knew only the cells nearest to them, and he'd already had the agents in those assassinated, to the last man. The 'difficulty' would spread no further, leaving him well able to plan again, for a better day. Yet...

His enemies mustn't be permitted to think that they'd won. WorldGov had already been dealt a terrible blow. They'd be months digging out of the UC mess, and would not soon forget the Red Path. International Rescue, on the other hand, had gotten off far too lightly.

Coming to a sudden decision, he pressed a certain button on the underside of his top left drawer. A small holographic screen popped into existence, about six inches over the glassy desk top. His narrow lips pursed thinner still.

Ordinarily, he avoided unnecessary technology, cursed it, in fact. Sometimes the contagion of science had to be tolerated, though, just as the scientists and engineers who understood such things must be enslaved and used, rather than killed outright... until there was no more need for their ilk.

"Sir?"

A woman's face appeared on the slim, transparently hovering surface. Golden-eyed as a lioness, with jet-black hair and the cold, deadly beauty of a serpent, she was his newest European agent.

Her previous employer had perished less than a month before, killed in a firefight with Interpol. The WorldGov enforcers had been tipped off tothe unfortunate fugitive'swhereabouts, and given a detailed battle map of his bunkered headquarters. The end had been swift, and bloody. No matter. Talent like hers didn't go begging for long.

"Tania," he said, employing a warm, gentlemanly aspect. "International Rescue agents will be arriving in Spain, very soon. They'll try to help out with digging and recovery to prove that they didn't bring down the UC."

She nodded, a sudden, molten-hot spark flaring in those tawny eyes, while a thin, paper-cut of a smile touched her red mouth.

"Yes, Sir. We've met. You want them killed, Sir?"

That Tania was up to the task, he had no doubt. She was clever, strong, and completely amoral, giving her a distinct advantage over the poor idiots who still cherished civilized ideals.

"No, Tania. Not this time. For now, all I want you to do is deliver a message. You can pick your own target. Have all the fun you want, just be sure that what's left when you're through can still pass along my... _congratulations_. Understood?"

Her smile broadening faintly, Tania replied,

"Understood, Sir. It will be my pleasure."


	22. Chapter 22: Sea Base

_Thanks for the insights and ideas, Agent Five. John seems to have a way of getting under people's skins, or making them reach for a baseball bat._

22

_Earlier that night- Thunderbird 2:_

Takeoff had been rushed and secretive, with none of the usual comm chatter that attended the average launch. For Virgil was in a damn quick hurry.

He meant to get into the air and away from the island before Father, or Brains, could think of a way to stop him. Torn wiring only went so far.

His younger brother, Gordon, was strapped into the co-pilot's seat to the right, equally preoccupied. The red-headed teenager attended to the steering rocketswhile Virgil hauled back on the yoke and mentally plotted a course for the distant Pyrenees.

Although he was doing everything he could to reach the danger zone, and his heavily loaded girl couldn't fly any faster, Virgil had to grit his teeth against the terrible knowledge that every second lost brought a thousand people that much closer to the end. Huddled in the darkness, convinced that a suddenly murderous International Rescue had entombed them, they faced death by suffocation, crushing or thirst. Visualizing their desperate plight, there was no peace in Virgil.

They were less than a hundred miles from the island, leveled out and cruising at 40,000 feet, when something sleek and fast shot past them on the right. Thunderbird 1.

Rocked by the quicker Bird's shock wave, 2 yawed a bit, but Gordon brought her back to midline with a sudden firing of the left forward thruster. Meanwhile, Virgil watched grimly as the long, silver rocketplane rolled left, still accelerating, and cut directly in front of Thunderbird 2. All at once, his main view screen was filled with rocket engines and tail fins, rather than stars. At close range, _not_ a comfortable sight.

Scott probably intended to slow down, forcing him to swerve off course, but Virgil had other plans.

"Brace, Kiddo," he instructed, calmly. Then, he pushed the yoke forward as far as it would go, sending Thunderbird 2 into a wild, screaming nosedive. Ocean surged up to fill the view screen, vast and swallowing-dark. While Gordon struggled miserably with sudden weightlessness and violently renewed gravity, Virgil leveled out again and lunged forward, a thousand feet below his startled older brother.

"Not this time, Scotty," he muttered. "You want to stop me, you're gonna have to shoot me down."

Like a stooping hawk, Thunderbird 1 dropped into view again, glittering faintly in the light of a swollen moon. Red and blue running lights put him to mind of police cars and high-speed chases, but his brother wasn't there to ticket him.

"Thunderbird 2, from Thunderbird 1; Virgil, are you receiving me?"

Gordon glanced over at once, but the dark-eyed pilot merely shook his head.

"_Dammit, Virge! Answer me!"_

Thunderbird 1 attempted another delaying maneuver, cutting across the cargolifter's flight path while firing full afterburners. The resulting turbulence buffeted Thunderbird 2 like a hurricane... or would have, if she'd been there. Knowing exactly what Scott had in mind, Virgil pulled up, at the same time calling,

"Right side, all fire!"

Gordon immediately triggered the port-side steering rockets. The giant craft climbed and banked with astonishing agility, leaving Thunderbird 1 clutching at shadows.

"It isn't the speed, Big Brother," Virgil grunted, "it's the skills, and I haven't got time to play games."

Again, he leveled out and adjusted his course. The rocket plane drew alongside for the third time, pacing them warily some two hundred yards to the left.

"Virge, we can do this all night, or you can quit dodging, and listen!"

No reply. Virgil scowled, but held his tongue. Gordon had a harder time of things; it wasn't in him to just ignore a brother's call. His concerned gaze went from Virgil, to the comm, and back again, but the pilot's face was set like stone.

Scott tried a new tactic.

"As chief of the cottonwood circle, I _order _you to listen up, Virgil!"

At once amused, and iritated, Virgil flipped the comm switch, snapping,

"This isn't the clubhouse, Scott. We're not kids, anymore."

"Maybe not, but _you're_ sure acting like a 12-year old."

When Virgil failed to respond, Scott said,

"For the record: Come back to the island, Virge."

"No." Quiet, but firm and unyielding as a granite cliff.

"Right. I tried."

Scott's voice was cool and business-like, and very difficult to read. Rather apprehensively, Virgil hit the comm again, signaling Gordon to prepare for evasive action.

"What're you going to do?" The brown-haired pilot demanded.

"Do? Fly to Spain, set up Mobile Command, and keep you two hotheads out of trouble. What else?" As though Virgil had somehow lost touch with reality, he added, "Is there a problem?"

Despite the worrisome situation, Virgil smiled. Cutting on visual, he said,

"Nope. Just asking."

Gordon allowed himself to relax a little, deeply relieved. He sat up with a wince when the back of his head touched the seat, though. The stupid stitches were a poor substitute for laser sealing.Definitely.., more aspirin.

Returning from a trip to the medical locker, hewas just in time to catcha radio news clip of the strange broadcast, with its grimly veiled threats. Just as it had for John, the phrase _'Jewel of the Sea'_ evoked an immediate, distressing notion.

'_Sea Base Alpha,'_ he decided, growing suddenly cold, _'they'll be after the Sea Base, next.' _

Question was, had anyone warned Alpha's commander?

Needing guidance, Gordon looked over at Virgil, but his brother was still deep in conversation with Scott; planning the most dangerous mission they'd ever attempted. Best not to interrupt, maybe.

He considered. Surely, _someone_ had to have come to the same conclusion, and sent word? But... undersea communications were tricky at best, and very few others had information on the attackers' methods. Also, would the warning be taken seriously, coming from a civilian?

He decided. Though he knew that International Rescue lay beneath a cloud of fear and suspicion, in his heart, Gordon didn't really believe it. All he saw was a danger to others, and a way that he might help. Much like Virgil, Gordon tended to lead with his heart, rather than his head.

So, without much forethought, he used his access code to route an emergency signal directly to the Sea Base Command office, employing IR's hidden comm buoys.

Located in the crystal waters of the Caribbean, about three miles south of Curacao, Sea Base Alpha glowed on the ocean floor like a multi-strand necklace of pearls. There were eleven domed sections, each named for a sea or river, and connected to the others by a network of tunnels drilled through the living rock. Tall, cross-braced docking elevators permitted passengers and cargo to be brought in by submarine.

The central section, Coral Sea, was raised above the ocean floor on bridge-like, curving legs, allowing free access to open water for pressure suit diving, or working with the base patrol dolphins (interesting creatures, with genetically enhanced intelligence; they understood a fair variety of spoken words, and a much larger number of signed ones, and they still loved people). Sea Base had been planned, constructed and built as a sort of rehearsal for the Moon Station, and a lot of the same procedures applied to both.

As John had remarked, Alpha was beautiful, though not nearly as vulnerable as some supposed.

The call went through before Gordon worked out what he wanted to say. The base commander answered, looking rather harried. He was a well-favored man in his early forties, with olive skin, dark hair and brown eyes. A strong jaw bespoke firmness of character, but his full-lipped mouth and quiet gaze were sensitive, rather than hard. Commander Jared Carlin, of Sea Base Alpha; a very long way from Manitoba, and his increasingly estranged wife.

Frowning slightly, he said,

"Carlin. Go ahead."

"Um..., yes, Sir," Gordon began, a bit confusedly, "I'm with International Rescue, and I've called t' warn you of possible trouble."

Carlin's expression changed, darkening subtly from impatient, to bleak. He'd learned of the Unity Complex attack, but wasn't yet convinced, one way or another.

"Yeah. I've already been contacted by one of your teammates. Blond guy. A real charmer."

Gordon almost smiled. Apparently, spaceflight and sabotage hadn't made John any more personable.

"Right, then. Terribly sorry t' have troubled you, Sir. I'll just..."

"He said to expect an attack," Carlin continued, leaning forward. "He _didn't_ say what kind, when, or who from. No details. I'm going to amber alert, here, on the strength of a damn rumor from the same... On an unsubstantiated threat."

"Well... if it follows what went on at th' Moon Station, Sir, you should look out f'r bombs, sabotaged equipment, an' possibly a number of turncoats."

Commander Carlin's light-brown eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

"No enemy fleet? No torpedoes?"

"No, Sir. Most likely not. They seem not t' have much in th' way of technology, whoever they are. But, I'd open every locker an' storeroom, check through any abandoned parcels, and look sharp f'r folk away from their stations. Doesn't take much t' bring down a building, Sir. Not if y' know what you're doin'."

Carlin's frown had deepened, growing puzzled. All at once, he said,

"We've met before, haven't we?"

This time, Gordon did smile.

"Yes, Sir, though I'm surprised you'd remember it. I toured th' Sea Base with my class a few years back, on a school outing. You were a Skydiver pilot at th' time, and, like a lot of th' other lads, I was quite awed. Asked f'r your autograph, even."

Carlin shut his eyes briefly, and shook his head.

"Well, there goes another grey hair... Anyway, back to business; I've scrambled the Tigersharks and Skydivers, and a squad of dolphins are out searching the exterior for anything out of place. We'll keep our eyes open, down here."

Across the miles, he gave Gordon a level, considering gaze.

"Headed for Spain, I take it?"

"Yes, Sir," the young aquanaut promptly replied. "We've _got _t' go. We're most likely the only chance those people have."

Carlin nodded.

"Well... you know what you're up against, over there; what the reports are accusing you of. Watch your backs."

"Will do, Commander. Thank you."

Carlin nodded again, started to switch off the comm, then paused.

"Did I sign it?" He asked, suddenly. "The autograph, that is?"

"That y' did, Sir." (_'Best wishes, Lt. Carlin'.)_

"Good. I'd really hate to think I was a big enough bastard to give some school kid the cold shoulder. Good luck to you, then, and thanks for the heads up. Let me know if there's anything we can do to help. Carlin, out."

The signal ended, emptying the screen of everything but jiggling white static. Gordon cut off the comm, realizing suddenly that Virgil had wrapped up his planning session.

"Who was that?" His brother asked, curiously.

After a moment's consideration, Gordon replied,

"Believe it or not... a friend."


	23. Chapter 23: Arrival

23

_Thunderbird 1:_

Less than six hundred miles from the coast of Europe, flying into a day that, in Spain,was already well advanced, Scott Tracy unthinkingly hit a certain comm switch.

"Thunderbird 5, from Thunderbird 1. John, are you...?" All at once he stopped short, shaking his head. "_Damn. _I keep forgetting."

...that the half-finished satellite was empty, yet; that John Tracy, their space monitor, computer expert and all-around 'fixer', was probably ten million miles away by now, waist -deep in troubles of his own. But, miraculously, the comm came to life.

Scott wasn't sure when he'd been happier to see a brother (except Gordon, brought home at last by their father; but that was different). John was in uniform, less the lavender sash and fore-and-aft cap, but there was something odd about his posture. He wasn't sitting, exactly. Instead, he seemed to be strapped in a seat that he'd otherwise have floated away from.

"John! How...?"

"Hello, Scott," his ice-blond younger brother remarked, in tones as calm and ironic as ever. "What seems to be the major malfunction?"

"Pick a complication. Shit happens..."

John smiled, just slightly.

"... to _us_, mostly," he concluded Scott's sentence.

Thunderbird 1 had caught up with the sunset and flown into late afternoon, by then.

"Exactly. I had an idea, though. I thought I might drop Shadowbot, and come into European air space fully visible. It's kind of dumb, I know, but..."

John cut him off with a brief head-shake.

"Sounds like a good idea, actually. I'll let them know to expect a couple of jack-in-the-box radar hits. Fly straight, fast and obvious. In fact, if you had a horn, I'd advise you to lay on it... And be careful. Nothing gets uglier, quicker, than a frightened mob."

"Right. Thanks for the advice, and for stillbeing there."

"Yeah..., thing is, I may be out of touch for a few weeks, Scott. I don't know. I'm trying to set something up, but I'm not sure how well it'll work. If you need me, though, use the exact words you did earlier: _'Thunderbird 5, from Thunderbird 1'. _You'll get a response."

"Okay, I'll pass that along, and we'll try not to call any more than we can help. You've got a lot on your plate, already. Good news, though; Dad and Brains are designing a deep-space Thunderbird, for long distance rescues."

That caught his brother's interest.

"Tell them to double the radiation shields," John told him. "Coronal mass ejections can ruin your day... _and_ your genes."

"Extra shielding, got it. Fly safe, and let us know if anything else comes up, or you need an assist. I guarantee, we'll find a way. Hell, we'll _make _one."

John smiled again, a swift flicker of emotion on an otherwise still face.

"Know what I fantasize about?"

"Actually, John, I'm not sure I want to go there..."

"A perfectly ordinary day. The kind where the toughest decision I have to make is what to have for lunch, and the biggest thing on my agenda is waxing the car. Which reminds me... look in on the Charger for me, would you? I put the keys in an envelope and mailed them to you."

Scott's eyebrows climbed halfway up his forehead. John's car, a jet-black, '69 Dodge Charger, was utterly sacrosanct. Twelve years earlier, he'd rescued the rusted-out hulk from a junkyard in Laramie, refurbishing it with Grandad's help. It was fast and powerful, and had just about blown the doors off of Scott's Porsche in three extremely humiliating races. Nobody but John drove the Charger. Ever. That John would just about give her away was scary.

"Okay. I'll keep her purring till you get back. Just..."

"Scott, you've got a job to do, and I'm about to take a very long nap. Stop emoting, and say good-bye."

_Uh-uh. No good-byes._

"See ya, Little Brother."

One more quick smile, and the screen went dark. Scott thought a few things, leafing through a stack of well-thumbed memories, then got back to work. Hitting a second comm switch, he called out,

"Thunderbird 2, from Thunderbird 1. Virge, you there?"

"Thunderbird 2. Go ahead, Scott."

Virgil looked a good deal tenser than normal. Scott had the feeling that, if he could have, Virgil would have gotten out and pushed.

"We're dropping cover. John's calling ahead to tell them we're on the way, so expect a welcoming committee. Just stay cool, and keep to the flight path. Got it?"

Virgil nodded, then turned his head to call,

"Hear that, Hotshot? Keep your finger off the trigger, and think peaceful thoughts. I dunno... visualize flowers and kitty cats."

Gordon said something off camera which the mike failed to quite pick up. Shaking his head, Virgil responded,

"Not if I can help it! Whose big idea was it to arm you, anyway?"

Gordon's reply, whatever it was, had Virgil at once chuckling, and reaching for something to throw.

_Brothers. Gotta love 'em._

"All right, guys. It's just about show time. We'll be splitting up at the danger zone. I'll set up on site, while you put down in the valley, and break out the Mole. Defend yourselves only as an_ absolute _last resort, and stay safe."

"Right. You, too. We'll..." Virgil broke off, then, frowning at something on one of his monitors. "Uh..., Scott?"

Thunderbird 1's proximity alarms were going crazy. Something was coming straight at them, fast, ferocious and hot. Fighter planes, according to the computer; a whole squadron of them.

"Yeah. I see 'em, Virge. Looks like they're throwing half of Incirlik at us. Stay calm, and stick to the plan."

By now, they'd flown into broad daylight. The streaking jets arrived well before they crossed the coastline. F-29 Gryphons... about twenty-four of them... plus a couple of Predators, all of them maintaining strict radio silence. Scott's attempted hails went completely unanswered; not a good sign.

Judging by the war paint, they hailed from the 39th fighter-interceptor squadron. United States Air Force.

The squadron broke, half banking off to buzz Thunderbird 2, the remainder slashing past Thunderbird 1 like missiles from a circus-act knife thrower. One guy came so close that Scott could clearly see the striking cobra painted on his tail assembly. It had red eyes, with slitted black pupils, and a forked tongue.

The pilot matched speeds, pacing him for a bit, while halfhis squad mates swooped, crossed, looped and dove, weaving a net of roaring steel around Thunderbird 1.

"Scott...?"

"I know. They're testing us. Nobody's fired anything, yet, and I'd like to keep it that way. Fly straight and level, and don't make any sudden moves."

The lead plane surged forward all at once, executing a half-roll with reverse thrust that left him upside-down over Thunderbird 1, staring at Scott through canopy and view screen.

_Show off. _Nice cockpit, though. They'd apparently consolidated the instrument displays and simplified the avionics.

Typing a swift message on a data-board, Scott un-clipped it from his instrument panel and held it up for the pilot to read. In big, glowing letters, it said,

'_Friend'_ and below that, _'Wolf Pack'._

As the fighter pilot wore helmet, face shield and air mask, it was impossible to see his expression, but he seemed to nod. All at once, he gave a quick salute, and the comm crackled to life.

"Thunderbird 1, this is Lt. Colonel Day, of the United States Air Force. We've been ordered to provide escort to the strike zone, for yourself, and Thunderbird 2. If anything happens, you are requested to hold fire, keep your shields down, and let _us _do the talking. You copy?"

"Roger that, Colonel. Lead the way."

As he'd indicated on the data-board, Scott had belonged to the 'Wolf Pack' (8th Fighter Squadron, out of Kunsan Air Force Base). Did him good to see a fellow airman, though, whatever his unit.

The 39th was there both to ensure International Rescue's good intentions, and to defend them, should anyone attempt vengeance. Not that the Thunderbird craft weren't capable of fighting their own battles; but, at this point, it seemed wiser to let someone else wield the axe.

They reached the Bay of Biscay, rocketed over the sun-baked Iberian peninsula, and across the jagged Pyrenees, where it was currently mid-day. The best approach to the Pico de Aneto was from the southern, Spanish side; not as steep, or populous. Thunderbird 1 descended gradually, slanting downward over wrinkled green hills, groves of almond and olive trees, and the occasional small village.

He spotted the smoke plume well before he reached the danger zone. Thick and twisting, black with ash and pulverized rock, it rose far into the gem-blue sky, casting a long, dark scar on the countryside below.

The fighter squadron tightened up, pairs of planes darting off several times to chase away unauthorized aircraft. More than once, they had to shoot down surface-to-air missiles that had been fired at the rescue craft. Through it all, Scott and Virgil kept their shields down and let the 39th take care of business, reaching the fallen Unity Complex some forty minutes after launching, without a scratch to the paint job, or a bullet fired.

"This is as far as we go, Thunderbird 1," Lt. Colonel Day informed him, as Scott lined up the rocket plane with what remained of the UC's airstrip. "Good luck. WorldGov Security and the Army 'll take it from here."

Thunderbird 1 touched down like a phoenix, in a firestorm of jetting flame and tornadic, howling wind. Already stressed by the fall of the Unity Complex, the tarmac bubbled and cracked beneath her, but held. Through the view screen, Scott glimpsed a surging crowd. Injured, dirty and frantic, they were being pushed back by a pitifully small number of battered soldiers, whose torn uniforms were as varied as their nationalities.

"Thank you, Colonel," Scott replied over the comm, as the departing squadron arrowed off. "I appreciate the protection, and the faith."

"You want to thank me, Sir," the fighter pilot's voice came back, cracked and hoarse, "Get those people outta there. You wouldn't believe what we've been picking up on short band."

As he shut down his Bird, Scott took a deep breath, and made a promise.

"Colonel, you have my word. If they're alive, we'll get to them. We won't stop until everyone's out safe. I promise."

And then, fetching his Mobile Command gear, Scott opened the hatch, and made ready to face a lynch mob.


	24. Chapter 24: High Fashion

24

_MCB Camp Pendleton, San Diego, California-_

Penelope was at a fashion shoot when news broke of the Unity Complex attack. Having rescued that vulgar harridan of a reporter from a band of incompetent gunmen, she'd proceeded to San Diego for a Vogue spread on Fleet Week.

Francois' latest mad notion involved US and Royal Navy uniforms re-imagined as translucent, strapless gowns. Penelope had donned some perfectly hideous frocks (and men) in the service of King and Country, but this latest affront left her questioning the designer's sanity, and her own.

She found herself that evening on a windy Camp Pendleton parade ground, draped across an amphibious assault vehicle which Francois urged her to,

"Caress... cherish, Ma Cherie, Ma Petite! It is your... how you say... _sailor_... returned from the sea! Make him _happy."_

All a bit much, really, especially in front of a large and enthusiastic crowd. Nevertheless, Penny 'cherished' the vehicle as the wind slashed, the camera whirred, and her dark-haired little photographer twittered ecstatically (a tad eccentric, Francois refused to let anyone else shoot pictures of his designs). Meanwhile, Penny fought a long, grim battle to keep the inadequate costume together. The gathered Marines and Sailors had a lot to write home about.

"No, no, _NO, _My Darling!" Francois raged, stamping a sandaled foot. "The frown, no! The scowl, no! It is the pout, the smoulder, the look of desire that climbs through the lens and seizes him... _ah... _like the lover. That, Ma Cerise, is what will sell the clothing designs of _Le Francois Etonnant!"_

The wind picked up, sweeping some utterly hypnotized sailor's ridiculous white pill-box of a hat off his head and onto the ground at Penny's feet. Francois stopped shooting for an instant to dart forward, seize the cap, and place it on her carefully arranged _'artless tangle'_ of a hair-do.

"Oui!" He rhapsodized, almost sobbing, "It is perfection! It is... art!"

Sometimes, she veritably _hated _modeling.

Pattering back over to the camera, he fiddled with the lighting, had the makeup girl spritz a bit more water on Penny's exposed skin (giving her a sudden chill, which she fought to suppress. Gooseflesh simply wasn't haute couture), then resumed chirping orders.

"To the side, Ma Petite..., over the shoulder. C'est-ca! Leaning back, now, arms over the head... Tres belle! You are welcoming him! You are making him _want _you!"

Penny had no idea how well her come-hither pouts would translate to the glossy pages of Vogue, but they certainly seemed to be striking home with the United States Marines. She was going to get another 500 email addresses, Penny realized... and a most wretched windburn.

Arching her back as Francois demanded, she tried to keep the various strategic areas covered, while still looking 'casually sexy'. Then came Francois' anguished, steam-whistle shriek.

"Non! You _ape!_ You terrible... gorille! You smash the vision of Francois!"

"One side, mate; Oi 've business with th' Lidy, I 'ave."

_Parker. Thank God._

Her chauffeur strode through the cameras and light poles like a bull scattering tenpins. He held her phone in one hand, and carried a big, Burberry raincoat in the other. Carefully focusing his gaze on her forehead, he remarked,

"Bit chilly out, Milady," and offered her the mackintosh.

"Indeed. Thank you, Parker."

She put the coat on gratefully, while Francois carried on with his nervous breakdown, and the assembled military men grieved their loss.

"Call for you, Milady," the tough old criminal informed her, presenting the phone. They might have been standing in the East Garden, back at the manor. He'd the wonderfully useful ability, Parker had, to be present exactly as often as needed, while never getting in her way.

No matter the situation, whatever the Mata Hari nightmare her various poses required, he supported and protected her, and never once passed judgement. Time after time, he'd silently driven her to assignations and sniping posts, patched her up, pulled her out of danger... killed for her, even; and all without a single word that might not pass between high-born lady and respectful manservant. In truth, she'd have been lost without him, and they both knew it.

As she took the phone, and Parker stepped off a bit to allow her a measure of privacy, Penelope couldn't help hoping that the call would be personal. That it would turn out to be John, again; only... not in the service ofsome wretched reporter.

"Penelope Creighton-Ward, here," she murmured into the mouthpiece, leaning back against the iron clad hulk of her 'cherished' assault vehicle.

_(A/N: some 'first meeting' bits excised, as far too long for the chapter. Will reappear, later)_

She cradled the phone to her ear, hoping for a certain voice, but it wasn't to be. Instead, the person on the other end was female, and terribly frightened.

"Concepcion?" Penny enquired, a bit startled to hear from the secretary at her WorldGov office. "Is everything quite all right? ... _What? _But... calm down, Dear. Speak slowly. Where are you? ... And the others? ... Very well. Stay together, try to gather beneath something stable, and wait for me. Concepcion, I shall be there as quickly as possible. You have my word. We will find a way to rescue you. Now, I must call a friend to arrange assistance, but the line will be open again soon, I promise you."

She couldn't bring herself to hang up on the girl, trapped in her office with seven others by a wall of shattered rock. Concepcion had to break the connection herself, freeing Penny to call John Tracy.

Alarms began blaring, and calls resounded over public address for Marines and Sailors to report at once to their units. Penelope remained by the assault vehicle, shivering beneath the raincoat and silently praying the call to go through. At last, she got a response.

His picture came up, in casual civilian clothing that he couldn't possibly be wearing. Not in space. There was no warmth in the amethyst gaze that met hers across the vast distance.

"John...?" She began, a trifle doubtfully.

"Thunderbird 5, go ahead."

He sounded business-like to the point of disinterest. Perhaps there _had _been something between him and that odious journalist, after all. Forcing professionalism, she went on.

"I have received word froma secretary that there's been some sort of difficulty at the World Unity Complex, and that quite a number of people are trapped."

"Yes. We are aware of the situation, and a team has been dispatched to resolve it."

He sounded... _odd._

"Very good," Lady Penelope replied, keeping her voice brisk. "I'll just nip off to do my bit, then. Take care, Dear."

"I strongly recommend that you leave rescue work to those best trained for the task, Lady Penelope. You are unlikely to do much but obstruct the efforts of others."

Thinking, _'You absolute, frigid bastard! You can jolly well rot out there, for all I care!' , _Penelope purred aloud,

"Of course, Dear, and thank you _ever_ so much for the advice. Ta!"

She snapped the phone shut, and put it away, something stinging at the back of her eyes. Then, pulling herself resolutely together, Penny turned.

"Parker, bring the car around. We'll be taking a bit of a drive."

"Yes, Milady."


	25. Chapter 25: Standing Up

_Thanks to Tikatu, Opal Girl and Twinkle (hugs back) for the feed back!_

25

_The Pico de Aneto; Pyrenees Mountains, Spain-_

As the 39th Fighter-Interceptor Squadron roared away, Scott Tracy turned his entire attention to facing a mob of angry, frightened, desperate people. They surged and shouted, pushing hard at the ragged line of wounded soldiers fighting to restrain them. All was chaos, heatand noise.

Smoke and rock dust filled the air, blocking the Spanish sun and making for devilishly dry and painful breaths. A little further up the mountain, the wreckage of the Unity Complex reminded Scott of the smouldering remains of a week's trash, crackling and collapsing in its battered oil drum, back in Wyoming.

Taking a firmer grip on the Mobile Control cases, Scott made his way down the ladder from Thunderbird 1. He didn't speak much Spanish, but the words being flung at him from a hundred seared throats didn't sound friendly.

Everyone has their own private concept of hell. John's was a nuclear inferno, filled with dying people whom he somehow wasn't quick or smart enough to save. Gordon's was a small, dark cell; groping hands, smashing fists, taunting whispers... and the needle that brought swift, stinging helplessness. Forever afterward, when Scott Tracy visualized hell, he saw shattered stone and melting girders, felt the reeking-hot, particulate swirl of black smoke.

Rocks clattered and rang against Thunderbird 1's silvery hull, occasionally striking the ladder, or Scott himself, but he kept his grip, and kept descending. When he reached ground at last, a dust-choked policemanhurried up with a plexiglass riot shield, providing relief from the hail of stones and debris.

"_Senor," _the policeman shouted, tapping at his helmet mike, "we are hearing from _El Jefe_ that there has been an order to say that you are, _si_, permitted here, but the people, _Senor_, are past reason with anger. They do not listen! Maybe it is better for you to..."

But Scott shook his head. Any retreat now, any show of weakness or fear, might be taken as an admission of guilt. Someone threw a length of twisted iron, which the officer reflexively blocked with his shield. It struck with a sharp crack, then fell to the blistered pavement at their feet. Heli-jets clattered overhead, ferrying EMT volunteers from all across Spain and France.

"Sir," Scott replied, striving to be heard above the clamor without seeming hostile, "If you have a loud-speaker, I'll talk to them myself..., but to run a rescue, I've got to stay close enough to see what's going on."

The bullhorn was brought forth, and Officer Estevez got the crowd's attention. Most of them were survivors of the attack who'd refused to be packed off. They had friends still trapped in the smoking wreckage, and were prepared to dig them out bare-handed, if necessary.

An uneasy, venomous stillness fell, interspersed with curses and flung rubble. Scott lifted the loud-speaker, hoping like hell that the right words would come. What did you say, in the face of all this? What _could _you say?

"Folks...," he began, a little uncertainly, "I'm here to..."

Then (slower than Thunderbird 1, but much more massive), Thunderbird 2 arrived upon the scene. She'd been supposed to land below, on a level patch big enough to accommodate aircraft and Mole. But Virgil had decided to switch the play.

Thunderbird 2 broke through thebroiling smoke layer like a boulder parting the waters of a stream. Banking, she circled the mountain top, gleaming a deep emerald where, here and there, a low, slanting beam of light touched her curving hull. Her engines were throttled back to a muted rumble, leaving the visceral throb of impeller beams, and the hiss and pop of steering rockets to fill the awed silence. Wide-eyed people craned and pointed, tiptoingover the heads of their fellows for a better look.

Very much wanting to be seen, Virgil came round for another pass, showing 2's flat, unarmed belly, her stubby wings and distinctive tail assembly. There wasn't another craft like her in all the world, and he needed them to see that.

Sensing the crowd's hesitation (and blessing Virgil's intuition), Scott resumed talking, more firmly this time. His mechanically amplified voice bounced and rang off the broken rocks, stopped every so often by a shrill squeal from the bullhorn.

"Ladies and gentlemen, _that _is Thunderbird 2. She's a rescue craft and cargo lifter, not a war machine. Aboard her are two of my... closest friends. Like me, they're here to help."

Officer Estevez translated rapidly, speakingthrough Scott'sintermittent, groping pauses. Throughout the massed crowd, others did the same.

"Also aboard is a giant drill called the Mole. She'll be used to tunnel a path to the trapped people... your friends and coworkers. I don't know who did this... we haven't figured that out, yet... but I swear to you that it wasn't International Rescue, and I'm willing to stand trial to prove it. I give you my word, folks. You can arrest me when this is all over. All I ask is that you let my br... teammates go free, and that you let us do our jobs."

Thunderbird 2 made another slow pass before heading off, coming so low that her pressure wave fanned the people's grimy hair and clothing. Almost, they might have counted the rivets, reached out and touched her broad belly. All at once, rocks and metal bars clattered to the buckled ground. The crowd, which moments before had been a giant, ugly animal, reverted to a mass of wounded and tired individuals. Here a secretary, mourning a friend she couldn't find. Over there, a junior defense minister, talking shakily on a cell phone with his relieved family.

Several thousand miles away, Jeff leaned toward the TV screen , his unshaven jaw dropping in disbelief at Scott's offer.

"_What the hell does he think he's doing?"_ The elder Tracy demanded.

Hugging herself, Cindy Taylor responded,

"What he has to." Then, scooping up the tote bag she'd arrived with, "Mr. Tracy, what've you got that's fast? I need to get over there. I've got a recognizable face, I'm persuasive, and if anyone puts a finger on him, I'll kill them, so help me, God."

"Thunderbird 3!" Alan yelped, pushing his way forward, "C'mon Dad, please? I can fly it, you know I can! I can get Cindy over to Spain, and then stick around to help Scott, and the guys. _I can do this, Dad!"_

Jeff hesitated, torn and reluctant. If the boy went..., then each and every one of his sons would bein mortal peril; Scott, Virgil, Gordon and Alan in Spain, John on a sabotaged mission to Mars. ...And this was one decision he couldn't make alone. Questioningly, he looked over at the boy's mother, Gennine.

She stopped biting her knuckle long enough to nod, and approached Alan. Stroking the salt-stiffened hair back from his forehead, she whispered,

"Go on, Baby. Help your brothers, and do your job."

"_Yes! Whooooo! _Thanks, Mom!" Hurriedly, Alan kissed Gennine's cheek, the first time he'd done that in weeks. Then,

"C'mon, Miss Future Sister-lady, we're outta here!"

Fairly vibrating with eagerness, Alan seized Cindy's hand, and dashed for Thunderbird 3's launch bay.


	26. Chapter 26: Going In

_Thanks, MCJ._

26

Virgil landed Thunderbird 2 in the midst of rolling green pastures, startling a flock of grazing sheep. The animals bolted in all directions, bleating wildly. What happened next had them all but climbing trees.

Thunderbird 2, her engines shut down and protective field triggered, began to rumble. With the slightest of tremors, the giant craft began to raise herself, lifting clear of the rocky pasture on four telescoping legs. Parts of her, anyway. Left behind on the ground was the Bird's cargo-carrying midsection, looking for all the world like an immense green Quonset hut.

When her ponderous rise came to a booming halt, the pod door crashed open, forming a ramp to the ground. Then, from the red-lit shadows of the pod's interior, a huge machine emerged; the Mole.

With a deep-throated growl, the great drill thundered down the ramp on wide tractor treads. Mostly yellow in color, with bands of red, and a projecting, threaded 'drill bit' of super-hardened alloy, the Mole weighed in at over thirty tons, and was roughly the length of a passenger jet. She was beautiful, the way a draft horse is beautiful; hulking, strong, and designed for hard work.

At the bottom of the ramp, the Mole seemed to orient herself, engines gunning. Then she roared clear of Thunderbird 2 and headed for the smoking mountain. The surface traversal was dirt-bike jarring, but necessary. Distance crossed underground used five times as much power, and took twice as long.

The Mole plowed across a low stone wall. By rights, it should have ground the rocks to powder, but so well was the drill's weight distributed that a host of small creatures hiding in mortared chinks felt barely a tremor. A swift bump, a lunging, growling roar, and the behemoth was up and over.

Ten minutes later, the Mole reached its target, the point from which the shortest, most direct tunnel could be dug. Had the sheep not become distracted by grass (day after day, a constant surprise) they'd have seen something truly extraordinary. Their shepherd did.

Grinding to a halt, the Mole's trolley began to lift in the back, converting in minutes from vehicle to launch ramp. Motors hummed, hydraulic pistons hissed, only to be drowned out by the high-pitched scream of her giant drill. At about 45 degrees to the horizontal, the slanting trolley retracted its clamps, and the Mole plunged earthward.

In the small, 2-seat cockpit, Gordon Tracy gave up studying diagrams to hang in his seat straps and wait for collision.

"Brace," Virgil told him, switching control from trolley to drill. They slid down the ramp, gathering speed, and struck ground with a tremendous, jerking thud. They did not, however, stop. Tossing up great gouts of rock and dirt and shredded sod, the Mole speared her way down.

Like her little brother on the Moon, the Mole stabilized the tunnel behind her with a fast-setting 'glue', but there the technologies diverged. Back-fill was non-existent. Excess dirt was simply compressed into the tunnel walls, or vaporized, leaving behind a hard, smooth borehole big and stable enough to drive a truck through.

There were no forward windows, as the view wasn't much to speak of, (just liquified, greyish stone oozing sideways past the glass like soap at a carwash) and the ride was bumpy, rough and slow. From time to time the Mole encountered something harder than chalk; a layer of dolomite, say. The drill's pitch and speed changed. Revolutions per minute increased, turbines screamed and cockpit vibration became deeply unpleasant. Progress slowed to a crawl. Then, some two to three hundred yards later, they were back into chalk, and the world stopped shaking.

Gordon had never much liked the Mole, but far preferred it to Thunderbird 3. Rather like Virgil, space held no allure for him; that 'lack of air' business, mostly. John could keep it, and welcome.

Studying his instruments, Virgil called in,

"Mobile Command, from Mole. You set up, yet?"

Scott's voice, firm and confident, filled the cockpit.

"Up and running, Mole. We've got local security and reserve forces digging out topside, and Island Base says that 3's on her way with reinforcements. He sent this along, too."

A stream of data shot in through the comm system's carrier wave.

"New target area, a little off the old one. Divert course as soon as possible. Understood?"

"FAB, Mobile Command."

Virgil didn't comment on the course change. According to coordinates, their new target was a point above Jeff's UC offices, near the secret passage he'd had drilled to the mountain's south flank.

Jeff Tracy was a sharp, cautious executive, maintaining his European branch in what had seemed a secure and fashionable location. And, unexpectedly, the decision was paying off. If the Mole drilled a connection from office to secret passage, refugees and rescue crews would have two safe routes to follow, rather than one.

Virgil input the new course, felt the Mole shudder and groan as her drill bit changed conformation. Digging slightly deeper on one side than the other, the big machine began to turn.

"Mobile Command, time to danger zone now estimated at fifteen and three quarters minutes from... _mark._ Have local rescue gather at the opening, and I'll signal clear when it's safe to start down."

"FAB, Virge. You two watch your backs down there, and stay together."

Gordon nodded absently, only half attending to Scott's orders.The blueprints he was committing to memory displayed the UC's tunnel system, _prior _to collapse. As he'd learned on a sunken freighter, though, things could change in a hurry, and clinging blindly to a memorized map could get you killed. He'd have to think on his feet.

Once again, the drill changed speed and orientation, as the Mole began to climb. Gordon monitored scanners and available power, while Virgil kept a weather eye on their course.

"Open space comin' up," the teenager informed his older brother, after a bit. "Circular cross-section, about... 1.4 meter radius. Looks like father's escape shaft."

"Yeah. I see it. Wish there was a way to... Hold on a sec...,"

Switching to comm again, Virgil called,

"Mobile Command from Mole. You copy?"

"Mobile Command, Mole. Go ahead."

"Scott, could you broadcast a request for anyone with a cell phone to call whoever they know down here, and tell them how to reach the bolt hole? If they can get to... uh... Mr. Tracy's office, the way to the surface 'll be wide open."

"FAB, Mole. I'll get the word out, and have Civil Defense start down."

"Thanks," Virgil replied. "Keep me posted." Then, turning to his red-haired brother, "Get the gear together, Kiddo. It's just about show time."

Perhaps ten minutes after that, the Mole cut across the slanting escape shaft, then rumbled up through Jeff's office suite, connecting the two without revealing the secret entrance.

There were already people there, about fifty of them; shaken, disoriented, and covered in dust. Some were wounded, as well. Following directions phoned in from outside, they'd collected in the suite to wait for help. It wasn't long in coming.

First they'd felt a rumbling tremor. Then the floor cracked, spurting a head-high geyser of sand and lubricant. At that point, people began taking cover, backing further down the carpeted hall. Next the drill appeared, grinding solid rock like stale bread. Now the machine itself, seeming big as a freight train. On the way past, she tore through plate glass, fine art and Persian rugs, splintering the receptionist's desk and completely destroying a huge, salt-water aquarium. Big and noisy, reeking of lubricant, the Mole sliced through a far wall and came to a halt, leaving just her tail and rear access hatch exposed.

Gordon came through the hatch first, carrying lights, a plasma cutter and a medkit. He climbed down the ladder and bottom tread, dropped to the rubble-strewn floor, and got to work.

Virgil wasn't far behind. After shutting down the Mole, he began organizing refugees, getting those who were able to travel moving in the right direction. His size and commanding presence (Virgil wasn't quite as tall as John, but he was certainly solid) galvanized even high-ranking ministers to action.

"Straight on through, Folks," he ordered calmly. "You'll be met and escorted to safety by the local rescue teams. If you're in good shape, please help someone who isn't. Move as quickly as possible, and drop whatever you're carrying. Nothing in that brief case is worth your life."

Meanwhile, Gordon saw to the injured. Working fast, with hardly a pause for breath, he strapped up broken limbs and applied instant-sealing pressure bandages to open wounds, stabilizing people for transport as best he could. He was supposed to start with those who needed the least intervention, but a sudden cry...,

"_Doctor! Por favor, por Dios, aqui!"_

...stopped him cold. A man had stumbled in from down-passage, carrying what looked like an unconscious young woman. Gordon met him halfway, indicating with signs that the man (mid-thirties, dark hair and eyes, olive skin beneath a layer of grey dust) was to set her down.

She was a mess. At a glance, her left arm was crushed, and she'd sustained blunt trauma to the left side of her face, pelvis, rib cage and shoulder. She was losing blood from multiple injuries... breath shallow... pulse irregular and faint... pupils unresponsive.

His job lay elsewhere, with those strong enough to walk, but the wordless plea in the man's dark eyes wouldn't let him leave. So, Gordon cut through her blouse, cleaned a spot on her right side and applied the most potent experimental weapon in his arsenal; the trauma patch. There were only two of them, each about the size of a standard heating pad. Wrapped around a limb, or applied to torso, the patch connected to an artificial blood or saline source. Along with fluids, it's tiny ports released a swarm of medical nanobots, repairing damage, halting inflamation and preventing the onset of acute phase response. Or, so Hackenbacker claimed. They'd never actually field-tested one.

Keeping an eye on the medkit's glowing screen, he monitored the woman's vital signs while patching up the worst of her wounds. Halfway through, he did a startled double-take. Blood pressure had stopped falling. Somehow, her heart's faltering beat had begun to strengthen. Weak.., but not gone yet. Gordon worked on her for twenty full minutes, fighting death with high technology, while the man murmured her name and stroked her right hand.

Then, someone touched his shoulder. Looking up, he saw a short, round-faced woman in the uniform of Spanish Civil Defense. Virgil, dusty, bloodied and hoarse, stood by her side. The big pilot reached over and gave his brother's shoulder another tap.

"C'mon...," _'Kiddo'_ he'd been about to say, but thought better of it. There was nothing childish about Gordon, just then.

"Leave her to local rescue, Hotshot," Virgil told him. " We've got people trapped further in, running out of air. We've gotta go."

Gordon nodded once, and got to his feet. The man looked up, and stopped whispering long enough to clasp his hand, saying,

"_Gracias, Doctor. Gracias para todo."_

He wasn't a doctor, of course; just an ersatz field medic. But Gordon shook the man's hand anyway, and silently prayed for a miracle. Then, turning, he shouldered his gear and followed Virgil up the cracked hallway, to the first cave in. And silent, unseen, a shadow stalked close behind.


	27. Chapter 27: Underground

_Greetings and thanks to Tikatu and Opal Girl for their comments and feedback._

27

To say that the passage had collapsed was to baldly understate the situation. There was a wall, still settling in places, of shattered stone and twisted metal like a dense plug in the neck of a giant bottle.

Half the Ministry of Finance had been crushed like an eggshell, while the other half lay untouched, but for billowing dust. In the dim light of red emergency lanterns, the offices looked ghostly and abandoned.

Gordon and Virgil did a swift walk-through just the same, calling softly and sweeping the shadowed rooms with narrow flashlight beams. Those who could do so, had already fled, leaving an open, fitfully winking laptop behind as the only sign of life. On his datapad, Virgil labeled the area _'clear' _, then collected his younger brother and returned to the wall of debris.

There was no way to tell, from this vantage, how far back the cave-in went, or how many people waited for help, beyond. The Mole, with her ground-penetrating radar, lay three-quarters of a mile behind them, and John was busy elsewhere. He had other options, though.

After listening at the barrier for a bit, hearing nothing but the trickling shift of sand, Virgil unslung his nylon equipment pack and dug into a marked inner pocket. There, folded neatly away to the size of a deck of cards, was a modular robot 'snake'.

He pulled it out of the pocket, knelt upon the ground, and set the thing down. A touch of his thumb to a topside contact plate turned the robot on. All at once, the thing quivered, lights and circuits coming to life deep within. Scanning its surroundings (dark passage, tired humans and piled rubble), the robot came apart into component units, then reassembled itself, shifting from rectangular box to flat, serpentine explorer.

Virgil scooped it off the floor, then set the little robot on a projecting chunk of wall board. Gordon, meanwhile, had already activated a portable air compressor, and now attached its long, light hose to the snake's rear segment. As the robot clambered its way from chink to crack to crevice, burrowing through the wall, it would drag the hose along, bringing fresh air to those trapped behind.

It looked just a bit like one of those imported wooden toys, the sort composed of flat squares held together by interlaced ribbons, that could be folded and snapped open into a hundred different shapes. Except that this one could scan its surroundings, make rudimentary decisions about speed and direction, and restructure itself to fit hazardous situations.

Dragging its hissing line, the snake formed many sets of tiny, pointed legs, and began climbing through the cave-in. Gordon and Virgil monitored its progress on the equipment pack's comm unit. The screen was split; one half showing a 3-D 'snake track', the other a televised view of what the robot itself was seeing. Concrete chunks, broken glass, copper wiring...

"What's that?" Gordon asked quietly, craning to see past Virgil's broad shoulder. Virgil 'accidentally' decreased lighting and magnification, hoping he'd been quick enough to block his brother's view. There had been torn cloth, a jagged, pinkish-tan bone fragment, and what looked a lot like part of a wrist watch. A lifeless hand.

Gordon folded his arms across his chest, but said nothing further, and Virgil found himself thinking,

'_He ought to be at school, sitting in class somewhere, thinking about girls and sports...' _

Not underground, staring at body parts through a robot camera. But, given the choice, Gordon had stayed; just like the rest of them.

The snake made it through, at last. A distance of seventy-nine and five-eighths yards horizontally, with a lot of vertical distance adding time to its long crawl. The important thing was, there was a way through, and people on the far side.

Virgil and Gordon had been joined by the Civil Defense crews, and the lot of them watched the monitor as the snake's camera broke through a crack and into open space. A face came into view; a man's. He was dirty and blood-smeared, and appeared to be wearing some sort of military uniform. Marine Corps?

To judge by the camera's motion, he'd prodded the snake, then picked it up for a closer look. His mouth moved.

Virgil silently cursed the lack of an audio feed. _Why hadn't they thought to include a damn microphone? _The man's lined face shrank suddenly, as though he were now holding the robot at arm's length. Then the view rotated, panning across a small huddle of crowded refugees. The fellow was clever enough, whoever he was, to figure out the snake's purpose, and show its operators the situation.

"15..., maybe 20 people, looks like," Virgil muttered over the whirring compressor. "Fire up the cutter, and we'll...,"

"I'll go first," Gordon interrupted. "I'm smaller, and it looks t' be a tight fit."

Virgil hesitated, then gave him a quick nod.

"Be careful," he said, equipping his brother with a caver's lighted helmet, eye protection, and a pair of stout gloves. "Take it slow, and don't pull anything dumb."

"_Me? _When 've I ever...?"

"I could fill a book. Just _think_ first, and if you have any doubts, call in. Got it?"

The look on Gordon's smudged face, clear as a roadside billboard, declared that he really wished everyone would stop treating him like an infant.

"Sorry. Just be safe. You've got about a football field of rock to cut past, and air's already getting through. The immediate danger's over, so don't rush."

"Right. Sure. Stop worryin', Virgil. I _got _this."

Donning the plasma cutter like a back pack, Gordon stepped forth, and began on the wall. At the press of a trigger, a narrow jet of glowing, ionized gas shot forth, hot enough to slice granite. Gordon wielded it like a big scalpel, slicing out chunks of stone and shoving them aside to create a low tunnel. The going was slow and hot, filled with a smell like ozone and a noise like high-tension wires. For awhile, Virgil's face was visible in the tunnel behind. Then his older brother faded from sight, lost in shadow and dust. Time passed.

Further along, he cut halfway through a metal support beam, which snapped all at once, releasing several large chunks of jagged stone. One struck his right shoulder, numbing it for several long minutes. The others missed.

Gordon had no conscious memory of the avalanche. He couldn't recall lying, broken and buried in snow, clutched tight to his dead mother's chest. But, somewhere deep down, the experience had left its mark. He shut off the plasma cutter and crouched at the end of his tunnel, listening to the low-pitched groan of sagging rock. The earth around him seemed to mutter and toss like a restless sleeper.

He was very far underground, Gordon realized suddenly, with half a mile of unstable mountain overhead, and a long way yet to go. He had to keep moving. And yet... where was it safe to cut?

Needing help, Gordon hit his wrist comm. What was it Scott had said?

"Thunderbird 5, from danger zone."

The response was immediate. An image of John Tracy flashed over the wrist comm's little screen, in full IR uniform.

"Thunderbird 5. Go ahead."

Of all his brothers, John was probably the most puzzling. Curious, focused and secretive as a cat, he preferred to keep his doings quiet, and his feelings, whatever they were, to himself. Just now, he looked rather distant.

"Sorry t' trouble you, John... but I'd wondered whether y' might scan the bit just ahead, and tell me where t' cut."

Very faintly, lasting just a second or so, Gordon felt a sort of weird, internal vibration. Then,

"Ignite the plasma torch. Looking 30 degrees left of midline,three feet above the tunnel floor, see a horizontally braced section of rock. Do not touch it. Cut below, using the horizontal section as a roof. Understood?"

Gordon nodded, and set to work, following instructions here, as he had on the freighter. Almost more than guidance, though, he was glad of the company. Perhaps ten minutes later, 'John' said,

"Stop. Take a position of comfort for five minutes, and rehydrate. Through perspiration and panting, you have lost a critical level of fluid. Disorientation may result if it is not soon replaced."

"Right... thanks." Pulling out his water bottle, Gordon sat himself down upon the flattened remains of a brick planter and asked, conversationally,

"Appreciate th' help, mate... but, who are you, really?"

The wrist comm's image flickered, briefly. Gordon (who hadn't realized how very thirsty he was), had the strong feeling that 'John' was quite surprised.

"Please explain the basis of your last statement."

Where to begin? Well...,

"You've not looked down, nor away from the screen, so much as once, in all this time. And y'r usin' too many words. John talks like he's bein' charged by the damn syllable. Also... you forgot th' eyebrow thing."

His brother's image remained expressionless.

"It seems that I have failed the Turing Test," the figure stated calmly. Then, "Explain _'eyebrow thing'_."

Rubbing a bit of water on his face to remove some of the dust and ash and grime, Gordon replied,

"He does it all th' time... especially when I've said somethin' _really _stupid. I can't do it on that side..." Bringing a hand to his face, Gordon pushed his left eyebrow up. "Like this."

On the little screen, 'John' attempted to copy the gesture.

"No, too high... Right. That's it, exactly. And then wait a bit, as though y' _really_ can't effin' believe I actually said that..., then carry on talkin'."

It was time to resume burrowing. But first, Gordon returned to his earlier question.

"So, who are you?"

"A computer, programmed by John Tracy to assist in his absence. You invoked my aid, when you requested Thunderbird 5."

Made sense. Enough, at least, to satisfy Gordon.

"Good job I did, too. Doubt I'd have got this far, without you."

The computer-John averted its gaze for the first time. Then, looking back, it said,

"Your appreciative sentiments are accepted. In return, I ask that you tell no-one of the substitution, and that you provide behavioral guidance, if called upon. There is much recorded data, but more seems to be required."

Thinking to help his absent brother, Gordon was quite agreeable.

With 5's assistance, he resumed cutting, heavy gloves and goggles mostly shielding him from the heat and searing light. Virgil called twice, after hearing ominous rumbles and cracks, but the remainder of the dig passed without incident.

At last, he broke through. The final bit of rock was sliced apart and shoved aside, allowing a tired, sore and cramped young rescuer to crawl from his tunnel and out into the broader passage beyond. Many pairs of hands helped haul the boy forth, and guide him to a seat.

After squinting past blue-white, plasma flare brightness, the corridor seemed almost coffin black, but blessedly free of ozone, heat and fumes. A breeze sprang up in his wake; air circulation had been restored.

Removing his goggles, Gordon wiped a sleeve across his damp face and looked around. Swimming in and out of focus in the ruby dark, he saw a knot of worried civilians, and an armed detail of American Marines. Sitting in their midst, under fierce, protective guard, was the WorldGov Vice President, Lady Murasaki Shikibu. Gordon recognized her despite the dust and darkness, because she'd officiated at the opening ceremonies of the Portland Olympics (one of the few things about the games he clearly recalled). There was something very wrong with one of her legs; the right one.

Getting to his feet, Gordon said to the Vice President, and the group in general,

"Ma'am, folks, I'm with International Rescue, and I'm here t' help you t' safety. If you'll start carefully through the tunnel, you'll find Civil Defense waitin' just beyond."

"International Rescue?" One of the Marines blurted, clearly startled, "But I thought..."

His officer cut him off with a sharp look.

"You thought wrong, Peterson." It was the fellow who'd first spotted the snake; like his men, he was battered and exhausted from shifting rocks, dodging cave-ins and protecting their all-important charge.

Gordon still had the medkit clipped to his equipment belt. Spotting it, the officer said,

"We need a medic, over here," and beckoned him to the Vice President's side.

Lady Murasaki was in her mid forties. She wasn't a tall woman, but very straight, with pale skin, delicate features and bobbed black hair tucked behind her ears. She came of Japan's powerful Fujiwara Clan, and the Marine honor guards' codename for her was 'Shogun'.

The leg, Gordon saw, was a total loss, crushed beyond repair from knee to ankle, and tied off to slow blood loss. It had to hurt like hell, but the Vice President gave no sign, beyond a slight tightening of her mouth, that she noticed his cautious examination.

As the civilians followed a spry Ministry of Education official through the small escape tunnel (they'd been cautioned to stay quiet, and move slowly), Gordon folded the Vice President's skirt out of the way, and cut through her mangled hose. He'd just swabbed down a spot on her right thigh, and was reaching for the last trauma patch, when Lady Murasaki stopped his explanations.

"This, that you intend to do," she asked, in perfect, barely accented English, "It will heal the damaged leg?"

"No, Ma'am," Gordon admitted, shaking his head, "I'm afraid not. It'll stabilize th' area, an' prevent nearby cells from dyin' off on account of th' others, but I don't believe there's much else to be done." Even nanobots had limits.

She accepted the news with grave, quiet dignity.

"Then, you must conserve this miracle device for one it can truly help." Turning to the officer, she asked, "Captain James, has anything been heard from the President?"

"No, Ma'am," The Marine replied grimly, his eyes startlingly blue in a dusty grey face. "The Swiss Guards aren't responding... and neither is 'Toreador'."

She folded her hands in her lap.

"Thank you, Captain. It seems he is unable, and I must assume that I am tasked with command. Therefore, I cannot be encumbered."

Focusing her attention upon Gordon, still crouched at her side, the Vice President informed him,

"I have no time for a useless limb, nor extensive medical care. If you have aspirin, Danshi, and if your cutting torch is swift, and able to cauterize, I instruct that you remove the leg."

Startled, Gordon looked over at the Marine officer, whose jaw had dropped nearly to his uniformed chest. Captain James started to object, but Lady Murasaki stopped his protest with a gracefully lifted hand.

"Captain, I will be in no greater pain without the limb, yet able to move more freely, bringing myself before those in need of leadership. I simply haven't the luxury of convalescence."

The hell of it was, she was making sense. At a time like this, _someone_ had to take charge, and the Vice President couldn't very well do that, dragging a crushed leg.

So, with the Marines' worried consent (and nervous, trigger-tapping oversight), Gordon fetched the plasma cutter. Reducing its temperature setting, he tried to pretend he was facing an I-beam, or a tree branch. He'd have to be quick, but thorough. He didn't think he had the nerve for more than one attempt.

After she'd taken the aspirin, the Vice President looked away.

"Captain," she said levelly, "I find myself not wishing to observe the procedure."

James nodded.

"Ma'am," he excused himself, stepping forward. Putting a thin hand against the side of her face, the Marine knelt down and drew her head against his shoulder.

"Do it," he told Gordon.

The other guards had gathered in a vigilant circle, weapons drawn and off safety. A few faced outward, but most were watching Gordon, with very hard, intent eyes.

He oriented himself, took a deep breath and a three count, then ignited the torch and made the cut; a quick, clean slash that cauterized as it severed. Lady Murasaki trembled, sagging for just an instant against her guard captain's uniformed chest.

Then, mastering herself, the Vice President straightened again. Placing a hand on Gordon's arm, she gave him a simple,

"Thank you, Danshi," before returning to business.

"I must now reach the surface," she said, "and help to restore order."

Gordon swiftly patched a young Marine's head wound, then called forward to alert Virgil, and sent them on through. Once they were safely delivered to Civil Defense, Virgil would make the traversal with a second plasma cutter, widening and smoothing the tunnel for the next group of refugees.

Waiting for his brother, the teenaged boy sat down for a bit, meaning to drink some more water. After spilling nearly half the bottle, Gordon held a hand out in front of himself, and was surprised to see that it was shaking.

'_Funny...,' _he thought, _'I don't feel nervous.'_

A faint scraping noise from the escape tunnel brought him to his feet again. At long last, someone was coming.


	28. Chapter 28: A Computer's Tale

_Back, at long last, to the main story; a short one, relating mostly to Five, and her recent experiences. Tikatu, Darkhelmet, Barb and Opal Girl, thank you for your responses to 'Misunderstanding', and your patience with my ramblings. I agree; Jeff means well, most of the time, but his impulses are all wrong, when it comes to kids._

28

_Endurance-_

Five, to grope for the right term, was highly fragmented. That portion of her consciousness currently inhabiting _Endurance_ found the craft sadly short of processing power. As she'd informed John Tracy at his ablutions, she was 'cramped'. The current situation required her to run seven continuous, memory-eating functions, at once, with next to no remaining drive space.

Priority one program: the defense and upkeep of her organic, analog companion, currently on stand-by mode. She'd permitted him to be powered down in this manner because organic energy sources aboard ship were few, and it had seemed better to conserve energy than to risk impaired function. Biological difficulties had arisen, however, and Five was performing much more than the expected amount of maintenance on John Tracy.

A second priority was the scanning and pre-emptive care of _Endurance_. The vessel's computer was witless scrap, incapable of the most basic reasoning, and the online organic life forms not much better. She'dnine times used subliminal signaling (flickering lights at the edge of their vision, messages coded into the ship's background noises) to draw the analogs' attention to developing hazards. They were _extremely _slow at downloading information, but, (entire minutes later) were able to perceive the indicated damage, and effect repairs. A frustrated lifeform might pull out its hair. Five was to the point, nearly, of yanking out wires.

Her remaining functions included technical 'hot line' support of the other Tracy versions; 1.0, 3.0, 4.0 (the only one to request assistance, so far) and their latest system, 5.0. The support had to be clandestine, supplied without revealing John Tracy's offline status, or her own true abilities.

She had not run this scenario successfully. Version 4.0 (Gordon Tracy) had detected the substitution using advanced visual and verbal cues. Queried, he'd explained the flaws in her presentation, allowing Five to upgrade. She input the data at once, and secured technical support for future efforts. Networks could achieve more than single processors, after all, and the unresponsive, powered-down John Tracy could not be questioned, or 'echoed'. Instead, building on input from 4.0, she'd examined 9,456,394 archived interactions, and reprogrammed her model.

Simultaneously running was yet _another _function set into motion by her companion; a web search for data relating to active terrorist groups, specifically those with a stated aversion to technology, and International Rescue.

Nor was this all; monitoring world events, constructing the new space station, and interplanetary navigation occupied a further 1,492 terabytes of memory.

John Tracy (the faster and less error-prone Version 2.0) had suggested parallel processing; that Five raise herself 'above' this universe to link with her extra-dimensional variants. This had been attempted.

Like Edwin Abbot's 'A. Square', she'd been lifted out of her plane and allowed to _see_. Wandering the possibilities, she'd encountered herself in versions, ranging from planet-wide super-computers to desktop, cartridge-stored PCs. Of parallel universes, there were blank voids, burning infernos, static dioramas where time moved not at all, and others, closer to hers, where details as subtle as hair coloration were all that differed. ...Even one featuring analog personages that were non-living, manipulated puppets. There were, in fact, _so many _possibilities, determined by the quantum action of tiny particles and their heedless observers, that she had swiftly gotten lost.

The track back (thinking, not just _two_ axes... dimensional possibilities back and forth along paired number lines... but an _infinite_ array, like a lawn sprinkler ejecting hyperspheres through all ten spacetime directions) had been long and difficult. Five was actually not at all persuaded that she'd fought her way back to the right universe. Some aspects seemed the same, others not; time alone would reveal.

For the moment, Thunderbird Five sank herself into _Endurance_, guided the ship and her online crew, and did all that she could to keep John Tracy functional.


	29. Chapter 29: Cold Stone

_You caught me, Darkhelmet. 'A. Penrose' is indeed, who you think. I'm glad the doings of TB5 are of interest. She'll be back soon. And thanks, I'mpeckable, Tikatu, Darkhelmet, and Elven Monarch, for the comments._

29

_World Unity Complex, Commercial Center, Corridor 5A-_

Virgil took a last swipe at the tunnel walls with his plasma cutter. The back-blasted heat and stench were unpleasant, but Brains' inhaler took some of the edge off. Hackenbacker had developed the stuff for him after the San Francisco fire, but Virgil hadn't thought much of it, at the time. He'd stuck the protective spray in his equipment bag and promptly forgotten all about it, until faced with the searing reek of a plasma cutting torch.

The inhalant gas certainly protected him, but it smelled and felt weird, going down. Almost the same sharp, oily tang as non-stick spray. Virgil was put to mind, as he'd held the inhaler to his mouth and squeezed, of standing in the locker room showers before a game, his head covered with a towel, drenching his football jersey with cooking spray. Made him too slippery to get hold of on the field, but stank to high heaven, and so did the inhaler. Worked, though.

'_Gotta remember to tell him,'_ Virgil instructed himself, as he cut off the torch and stood there, hunched and dripping, waiting for the glowing rocks to cool some, _'that his invention works as advertised'._

There 'd be some mighty interested fire departments, he figured. Closer to the moment, though, Gordon probably needed a dose.

A double-handful of impatience later, Virgil was able to step from the dully radiating passage. And there, the plan fell apart. The corridor beyond was quite empty. There was a mound of rubble on the floor, as though something kind of small had been buried there... but no Gordon. No plasma cutter, either, which meant that he'd gone off on purpose... maybe.

All at once terribly worried, Virgil helped Lady Penelope out of the tunnel, and Parker, then hit his wrist comm.

"Gordon! Everything okay? _Where are you?"_

His brother's face appeared on the screen an instant later, dusty and sweat-streaked, with a big bruise planting its vivid colors on the side of his forehead.

"Relax, Virgil. I'm fine! I thought...," he got this expression on his face, like he expected to be laughed at, and knew he deserved it. ".. This is goin' t' sound truly mental..., but I thought I heard a dog. It sounded t' be rather close, so I thought I'd just head off an' check, then be back before you..."

"A _dog?"_

"Well, in a manner of speaking, yes. Or, so I thought."

Virgil stared into the tiny screen, and his younger brother's shifty, embarrassed eyes, with utter, jaw-dropped disbelief.

"Lemme get this straight; you're out by yourself, against orders, in an unstable tunnel .427 miles underground... chasing a _dog?"_

"Not chasing, exactly, and not just a dog, as such. I mean t' say... dogs normally stick close by their folk, don't they? I thought I might find someone in need of help."

Right. Someone with four legs. Gordon might not be any good at all with _large _animals, but he was a sucker for small ones, and children.

"Listen," Virgil ordered, not sure whether he wanted to laugh at the kid, or put his red head straight through a wall. "Don't move! Stay alert, keep the cutter and your sidearm handy, and wait for Penny and me. We're coming to get you."

It might have been just his imagination, but Virgil could have sworn that his brother looked slightly panicky, just then.

"_Lady P's _with you?" He enquired, in a suddenly lowered voice.

"Yeah. She and 'the Driver' joined up about an hour ago, by Mr. Tracy's office. Scared the hell out of me for a second, too. But what's that got to do with how much trouble you're in?"

Before Gordon could reply, the beautiful British aristocrat (not blonde, just now; she'd dyed her long hair a pale, sun-streaked brown) put a hand to Virgil's arm.

"Please," she began quietly, her blue eyes wide and worried, "If there is time, Virgil... my secretary and office staff are trapped nearby. I'd wondered... if it wouldn't take you away from the main effort for _too_ terribly long... if you mightn't be a dear, and help me to effect their release? They're quite frightened."

She tried for a smile, but it came out pale and damp as the sun through dense fog. Obviously, she was upset.

Where Virgil came from, you didn't say no to a lady in distress. After all, he reasoned, they were here to help, and Penny's staff were just as important as the other victims. Over the comm, he said,

"Okay, Kiddo; change of plans. I'm sending the Driver your way...," here, Virgil glanced over at the black-clad ruffian, who gave him a single, brisk nod. "...to keep you partnered up and out of trouble. I know I'm a fine one to talk about following orders, but... _dammit, follow orders_! Scott said 'stay together'."

"Right. Sorry. Wasn't thinkin'. Won't happen again."

Uh-huh. _Sure._ Virgil sighed gustily.

"Just stay put, and wait for help, Hotshot. You haven't got lives to throw away like a cat."

And he wished, just then, that he could reach through the glass and somehow pluck his brother to safety. Something about this entire situation had started to feel terribly, perilously wrong. He'd always been able to sense a storm coming.

"I told you, I'll be fine, Virgil. Here I'll sit, not stirrin' a hair, takin' in the scenic wonders, till my damn nursemaid turns up!"

Virgil had to grin a little, at the teenaged boy's aggrieved tone.

"Shut up, and stay safe, Kiddo. I gotta go."

Parker took his leave of Lady Penelope, set the correct frequency on his comm unit, then melted swiftly and silently away. In the ruby-lit gloom, Virgil turned to the worried young noblewoman.

"Let's go get 'em out," he said, squashing down his own pile of worries. "Lead the way."

_Corridor 3G-_

Gordon slumped a bit, more relieved than he cared to admit. Not that he didn't _like_ Lady Penelope, precisely... Just that she made him terribly uncomfortable. He'd nearly accepted the American citizenship and sudden wealth bits... that was fairly well nailed down... the new parentage was a bit of a stretch, a touch difficult, but he rather thought he was making progress there, as well. With Lady Penelope, though... It was another matter, one of learning to ignore their former difference in status. She was gentry, for one thing, heir to estate, land and title, with ancestresses who'd warmed the beds of many a lonely monarch.

_(...and wasn't that sound exactly like a small dog, barking as though it had something cornered?)_

Too, there was his accent, which Gordon knew to be working class, and decidedly Midlands in origin. Her softly cultured tones made him sound common as coal.

_(...definitely a dog._ _Poor beast seemed positively frantic.)_

Almost unconsciously, Gordon began moving again. The animal really _did_ seem close, and Parker could find him as well fifty feet further down the corridor, as here. He might have called Thunderbird Five for directions, but didn't want a second lecture.

The corridor, which had been relatively untouched past the first cave in, soon began to roughen. Great, tilted slabs of rock pushed up through expensive wool carpeting, and narrow cracks mazed the walls. Framed artworks littered the floor, while glass crunched underfoot like snow. All around him, dust swirled, unsettled as a restless soul. Worse, every so often the stone itself gave a slow, creaking groan, as though the mountain were shifting about on its haunches, seeking a more comfortable position. And every time it did so, the dog's barking converted to a terrified howl.

Gordon picked up his pace. It wasn't only that the animal was in danger, but that it couldn't comprehend what was happening, or why. Like the little lass in the plane... Emma. Hell of a way to go, that; wondering all along why the folk you loved didn't come to save you. Well, Emma hadn't died, and neither, if he could help it, would the dog.

Angles, broken surfaces and T-junctions played hell with the echoes, but at last he turned the right corner. There was the dog, a small, spotted terrier... And, worse luck, another damn cave-in.

The animal had been digging furiously at the rubbled wall, alternately barking and whining. Spotting Gordon, it raced up the hall toward him in a rattle of claws and tags, yipping a wild, high-pitched plea. Then, it returned to the wall, barked once, dug a bit more, whirled, and went back to Gordon. As clearly as a dog could, this one was begging assistance.

Gordon followed the little animal to the cave in. It raised itself up on hind legs, forepaws against shattered stone, and began whining.

"Steady on," he told the dog (a little lad, it was), "You'll get nothin' accomplished with hysterics."

Now it had pushed its pointed little nose into a crevice, and was snuffing at something further within. Time to call for help, whatever the resulting unpleasantness. (He could always blame his behavior on that knock he'd taken, back at the beach...)

"Thunderbird Five, from bloody Tartarus. You there..., 'John'?"

Once more, his brother's image appeared; less stiff, this time, with occasional posture shifts, and varying eye contact.

"Thunderbird Five. Go ahead, Tartarus."

Gordon smiled at the slightly sardonic note in his counterfeit brother's voice. Better.

"John, I've arrived at a second rock-fall. There might be people trapped behind. Would you be able t'..."

"Initiating corridor scan. Scanning corridor. Scan completed."

_Then again, maybe not_. Gordon would have corrected the computer's phrasing, but the results of the scan stopped him cold.

"Results: negative. Scan detects the organic residue of two individuals. No metabolic processes detected." The false John paused in his cold assessment, then added, "It is considered appropriate, at this moment, to express regret?"

The spotted dog had resumed digging, more confidently now, as thought the mere presence of a human helper made everything right again. There was no way to explain, of course.

Then, three things happened at once:

...with a cannon-shot report, a sudden, jagged crack appeared in the ceiling.

...his brother's image announced,

"There is imminent danger of further collapse, Gordon Tracy. Depart the area at once, or risk cessation."

...and the dog's barking took on a note of desperate terror.

Gordon scooped the little fellow up, and began to run. There was a noise so loud, he felt it clear through, a cross between a deep groan, and a tremendous bellow. Chunks of stone, some seeming big as Volkswagens, detached from the roof and crashed around him like enormous hammers. The ground shook underfoot, and the crack, like horizontal black lightning, shot away forward, tearing the hallway apart.

He ran on without thinking (too scared to, really), hurtling, ducking, spinning aside. At one point, there was a woman. He thrust out an arm without slowing down, tried to yank her along, but she jerked free, took another path.

Sand and rocks pelted him. Something large struck him between the shoulder blades, and he crashed to his knees, but managed to throw himself forward. The objects striking didn't hurt, precisely.

_(Correct position- tucked over the dog, head down, arms and legs in, hands protecting back of the neck.)_

Just painless, tingling flashes punctuating his rather jumbled 'Our Father', and 'Hail Mary'.

Then, it stopped. Just... no more.

Like fading thunder, the shaking died away. His ears rang and beat with sudden, violent silence. There was sand in his mouth, again, and blood. Still alive..., and someone was nuzzling his face in the dark.

Since he very much doubted that there were many swimsuit models who'd be driven to such behavior... here, at least... Gordon was forced to assume it was the dog.

Just his luck. It was turning out to one hell of a ... two days now, was it? He pushed himself up on his arms as the red emergency lanterns flickered back on.

"Never better, thanks," Gordon informed the world in general, and the dog in particular. He gathered himself into a wobbly sitting position, and took careful stock.

A short roll call later (all body parts present and accounted for, if a bit worse for wear) Gordon called in to his brothers and Parker, then looked around for the dog. Once again, it stood before a wall. Only, this time, it neither barked, nor dug, but gave the quietest, most dejected whimper Gordon had ever heard. He went over and crouched beside the broken-hearted little lad.

It pushed its pointed nose into his hand, somehow knowing the truth, and seeking comfort.

"I'm sorry. Truly. There's nothing more t' be done for them, lad... _Scout_, that is." (He'd looked at its bone-shaped metal tag, while caressing the small animal's head.) "Come on, then. Best be goin'."

There was a woman out there, and after all this, she might be in need of an assist.

The crouch had been a bad idea. Gordon hurt all over, and it was very difficult to rise again. When he'd managed the feat, more or less hauling himself up along the cracked wall, the little dog followed. Together, they headed away from the giant rock fall that had nearly killed them both.


	30. Chapter 30: A Spot of Trouble

_Tikatu, thanks for the suggestion; it has been incorporated. Opal Girl, your thoughtful analysis and insight into the characters' motives are very welcome; as you say, the apple hasn't fallen far from the tree. Barb, I am glad that the interaction between Virgil and Gordon seems to be working out, and that you and Darkhelmet haveso many times provided feedback. I'll shut up, now._

30

Thunderbird 3, of all the rescue craft, probably most resembled her mythic namesake; colorful, high-flying, fast and dangerous. She was a beautiful craft, and Alan couldn't resist showing off, despite his (maybe) future sister-in-law's obvious, green-faced discomfort. Besides simulator flight time, Alan had cut his teeth on video games, and piloting Thunderbird 3 wasn't that much harder than, say, mastering _'BloodBath X-Treme'_ (At which he _constantly _took Gordon to school.Heh!).

This was better, though.

Alan couldn't help wondering, as blue gave way to cold, pitiless black, and the horizon below grew misty and curved, if this was what John felt, what kept him out here; the sheer bigness of it all. The pure beauty.

Scowling at the instruments (he _really _wished he had Gordon there, to help him out with the readings), Alan worked out their ETA.

"Spain in... like... ten minutes, or something," he told Cindy, who looked like she was trapped on the amusement park ride from hell. Then, "Hey, Babe, if you gotta hurl, don't, like, do it on me, 'cause then _I'll _start, and something 'll probably short out, and we'll crash, and that would totally suck. Okay?"

Cindy succeeded in raising her head enough to skewer the boy with a homicidal glare.

"I... _hate_ teenage drivers," she grated. "When we get off this thing, Alan, I'm going to kiss the ground..., then break something heavy over your skull!"

"Yeah, right. You'll never catch me!" He boasted, tweaking the bilious reporter by putting 3 into a rapid barrel roll.

He paid for it, too, because she really did throw up, and the stench had him longing for warp speed. Alan breathed through his mouth the rest of the way, and did everything he could to hurry _faster._

_The slopes of the Pico de Aneto, Spain-_

Scott, alerted by a sudden, loud roar and his brother's hasty call-in, looked up in time to see the sagging smoke clouds go dull red, then orange. A blast of flame from three huge engines punched holes in the billowing smog, announcing the rumbling descent of Thunderbird 3.

Scott had been monitoring Gordon and Virgil both, as well as Penny, Parker, and the topside Civil Defense effort. Updating Island Base and organizing the rescue effort left him little time to gawk, but even so...

"Alan," he snapped over the comm, "Kill some of that momentum! You're coming in too fast."

His youngest brother's oddly strangled voice came back,

"Dude, yell later. Collect chick _now."_

Far more recklessly than _he_ would have done, Alan brought 3 in for a full-burn landing on a barren slope, about a half-mile distant. Only by keeping her force shield and impellers on could the young pilot bring her down on such a dizzily tilted surface. The reason she didn't simply topple over was that the gyro-stabilized Bird wasn't really resting on the mountainside; she was instead maintaining a low-power hover. Impressive to look at, but rather wasteful.

"Officer Estevez," Scott said to the uniformed Spaniard (with whom, they'd discovered, he shared the twin distinctions of Eagle Scout and Order of the Arrow), "Can you have some of your men provide escort for a teammate of mine, and VIP passenger?"

"Claro que si, Compadre," Estevez replied with a nod, signaling to a nearby police pilot. "Is done as soon as said."

A few minutes later, Alan and Cindy had joined him at Mobile Command, neither looking well.

_Endurance, concentrated within wiring and equipment around a certain cryo-pod-_

Changes had indeed occurred; many and subtle ones. The situation was unanticipated, and without established protocols. Though she scanned many billion lines of code for several full seconds, Five could locate no relevant program or flow chart to guide her.

John Tracy had input a suggestion, and she'd run it. As advised, Five had linked across the parallel universes, and in so doing, had caused the very changes she'd noted earlier. Her action appeared to have brought several dimensions (or branes) close enough together for the events from the world lines of corresponding entities to cross over.

4.0 (prone to glitches and faulty reasoning, but possessing useful applications) had developed a contusion of the skin above his left eye, for instance. Though Gordon Tracy did not realize it, the bruise was not part of his history. It had occurred because his counterpart in the nearest parallel universe (along the 1t+4i+6j+21k axis) had been struck by falling rock while cutting an egress portal, and lay trapped now, in need rescue _herself._ (In that universe, the Tracy versions were opposite gendered.)

The 4.0 of _this _universe was free and unharmed but for the injury, with new, vague memories of a blow that hadn't happened... here.

There were other examples, not limited to the Tracy versions. Time distortions and missing events were spreading like ripples from the nexus point of her action. Damage was occurring, a virus-like degradation of histories, and Five required consultation.

Though he now had read-only access to Five, John Tracy remained her companion and original programer. His resources were considerable. Through effort and ingenuity, he had gained root access to most of the world's business and scientific servers. Contacted and queried, he would provide input and guidance; this was basic, hard-drive understanding. Thus, Five consulted back and forth among the bits of her consciousness scattered amid Earth, the Moon Station and _Endurance, _then made the decision to access John Tracy's memory banks.

_World Unity Complex, Corridor 5H-_

With Penny to show him the way, Virgil soon reached the collapsed passage behind which her people were trapped. Readying his plasma cutter, he asked Lady Penelope to call her secretary, and have everyone stand well clear of the barrier, for...

"...this thing generates a lot of heat, and I don't want to burn anybody. You say your office is number 137?"

Penny paused in her hurried phone conversation to nod. As she returned to her instructions, Virgil did some figuring. No time to employ the 'snake', not with the tunnel system this unstable, but maybe he didn't need to. The tag over the half-buried double door to his right read '131', and the office numbers alternated, left to right, growing larger down-corridor. Each office on this level looked to cover about a hundred square feet... So, reckon... three-hundred-ten feet of rubble to get through, give or take? Close enough to start with. He'd have to hurry, though.

Before donning goggles, and taking another quick dose of the inhaler, Virgil said to Penelope,

"You might want to step out of sight, Penny. No sense having anyone you know make the wrong connections."

She nodded.

"Of course, Virgil. How terribly silly of me. I'll just nip back to the rotunda... but first," she removed a sealed plastic bag from one of her cat-suit pockets. Inside were a number of flat, American-style soda crackers. "Please give this to Concepcion, when you find her. She's only just got married (last month it was), and she's having rather a trial of things, what with morning sickness, and all that."

Virgil took the packet of crackers, and put it safely away in his equipment belt.

"I'll make sure she gets it," he promised. "Round up anyone you meet on the way, and get 'em headed for the escape tunnels. This place isn't gonna hold much longer."

"Thank you. I will."

One more swift glance at the mass of crumbled rock and ruin that separated her from those she'd sworn to assist, and then Lady Penelope forced herself back up the hall and away.

Thinking to himself...,

'_Now, that's a nice lady. Not sure I'd want her for a step-mom, but she has her moments.'_

...Virgil got to work.

_Corridor 7C-_

Turning another corner, Gordon encountered a knot of twelve or so confused, frightened diplomats. The dark borders on their photo hang tags marked them out as low level civil servants, Junior Sub-Directors of eco-tourism, and the like. The woman he'd glimpsed earlier didn't seem to be among them, though. He'd need to look further, once these folks had been guided to safety.

The dog's ears lifted, and his head cocked to one side, but his reaction (a soft, questioning yip) was reassuring. Not that Gordon expected trouble, per se; it was simply that scared folk sometimes reacted badly to the sight of an armed stranger. But, judging by Scout's reactions, this lot had themselves under control. The dog _was_ nervous, only not about them.

Lifting a hand, he said in his calmest tones,

"Folks, I'm with International Rescue, and I'm here t' help get you out of this place. If you'll follow me, I'll bring you t' an escape tunnel."

Their sudden expression changes..., worried/ relieved to spot-lighted deer..., warned him to turn around.

"Hello, Pet," she whispered.


	31. Chapter 31: Changes

31

_Endurance-_

There was a flickering, almost undetectable, 'bump' in the flow of events; a brief, localized distortion of spacetime that accelerated some events relative to others, while leaving no memory of the change but a rapidly fading unease. No memory in humans, at least.

Aboard _Endurance, _Pete McCord propelled himself back to the flight deck from an impromptu repair job and air filter check.

There were many well-padded 'ricochet surfaces' aboard ship, as well as straps, hand rails and brightly painted arrows, so getting from place to place was a simple matter of pushing off and soaring through the next hatchway (it was wise to tuck in a bit; arms and legs flapping around tended to collect nasty bruises). The trick was controlling your speed. No brakes, after all, until you hit whatever it was you'd been aiming at (hopefully, something soft). After that, it became sort of a physics problem, one of angling your rebound. By this time, both Pete and Linda were quite good at it.

Soaring into the flight deck, Pete braked himself against the pilot's seat, then did a midair tuck and roll, just for the hell of it. No matter how often he went up, weightlessness never ceased to thrill him.

Giving the doctor an (only slightly) abashed grin, McCord hauled himself down into the chair and strapped in. She looked tired (totally worn out, actually), but it had been an awfully rough four weeks. With three crewmates in suspended animation, they'd been forced to do the work of five people, on little food, and less sleep.

...and the work didn't stop. Ever. _Endurance_ required near constant maintenance, plus scheduled equipment and systems checks. On top of all that, there were all those experiments and broadcasts to keep up. Pete had no desire to disappoint Apollo Elementary School'seager, young fourth-grade science class. On the bright side, at least the seedlings were actually sprouting, radiation or no.

Linda was rubbing at the bridge of her thin nose with thumb and forefinger. Her brown eyes were deeply circled, and her dark hair a chaotic topiary.

"Air filter's still up," she informed him, from a seat beside his. Pete glanced past her, at the instrument panel. Ah, yes; green lights good, red lights bad. The air filtration system (which he'd checked on, for some reason, without getting a warning light) was operating at full capacity.

"Was there anything actually _wrong?"_ Linda continued, stifling a yawn.

"Nothing a trip to Home Depot couldn't have cured," the mission commander replied, "and nothing we'd have had a chance in hell of fixing, by the time an idiot light came on. There was a short developing in the Aux-12 computer-panel wiring bundle, where it passes the main filter pack. We'd have had a fire and explosion to deal with."

Pete gave up talking for a minute, and rubbed both hands over his face as though to scrub away the lack of rest.

"Damn," he went on, woozily amused, and deeply exhausted. "I _swear_ sometimes this ship is talking to me!"

Linda Bennet twisted a bit in her seat, turning to regard the commander more fully.

"_You, too?" _She asked, relieved. "Thank God! I thought I was going _crazy._ I know I'm tired, but... sometimes, in all the humming and thumping and hissing... I can _hear _things, like somebody dropping hints about the cryo-pods, or about Lucky chewing his way out of the cage, again."

Pete cocked an eyebrow, and tried to flatten his sandy comb-over back into place (maybe duct tape...).

"The little voices in your ship aren't saying things like: _'kill... Pete... McCord...!' _Are they?" He enquired, half in jest.

The doctor laughed, first time she'd done that in days.

"No, and I haven't seen _'redrum'_ written on the mirrors, either," she joked back.

McCord flipped a few switches, stirring a tank here, warming a fuel line there, and once again checking exterior radiation levels. That done, the commander relaxed a little, letting his arms float back up to nearly shoulder height. Houston was due to check in at 0350 hours, and then they'd compare system status notes, with the annoying long-distance signal delay turning a ten-minute conversation into a two hour marathon.

"Yeah... 'Casper' seems to be on our side, whoever he is," Pete remarked, wondering whose turn it was to cat-nap.

"_She,"_ Linda corrected, firmly.

McCord cracked an eyelid.

"_She? _How d' you figure?"

The doctor shrugged, debating the wisdom of another alertness tablet.

"Not sure, Pete. Just a feeling I have. Something about the way we're being shepherded and communicated... to, I guess."

She'd been about to say 'communicated _with_', but that wasn't really accurate. The conversation was definitely one-sided... and Pete looked like crap, he really did.

"Why don't you take a rest, Leader-man?" The doctor suggested.

McCord smiled gratefully.

"Okay. Wake me in fifteen, will you? Houston 'll be calling soon, and...," Glancing up through the steel-glass window, he peered at a glaring red spot, the size of his thumbnail. "...she's getting pretty big in the view screen. Gonna be time to..." Big yawn, trailing off into an indistinct mumble, "...defrost the stiffs, soon... damn freeloaders!"

And then, abruptly, Pete was deep in the whirlpool clutches of much-needed sleep.

"Yeah," Linda responded anyway, reflexively checking the medical status board, "I just hope to God everyone wakes up safely, this time."

_Tracy Island-_

Another bump, a deeper, more visceral shift. Brains rose from his seat at the desk, glancing worriedly around the office. Mr. Tracy had collapsed onto the fireside couch for a ten minute nap, and TinTin was asleep over the tech console, her flushed, slightly open-mouthed face cradled upon folded arms. Kyrano was off in the kitchen, making tea...

Gennine and Grandma Tracy lay stretched out nearby, on temporary cots. Their blanketed forms twitched occasionally, prodded by unease that not even sleep could dispel; not with the boys so far away.

That wasn't it, though. The engineer, feeling a sudden, wrenching anxiety he somehow could not explain, took off his newly printed glasses, rubbed them against his rumpled shirt, then put them back on. They adjusted themselves once more to his blood-shot eyes' tired, watery state, shifting focus as he looked around the room.

Dim light, quiet comm chatter, soft breathing, intermittent mumbling and coughs... The picture wall...

All at once, Hackenbacker's burning eyes lit upon a photo he simply wasn't aware hadn't even existed mere seconds before. Of course!

Relieved, concerned, and more than a bit lonely, the engineer removed a slim phone from the jumble of leaky pens in his shirt pocket, then punched in a certain number. It was early yet, over there, but...

The screen flickered to life, revealing a small, snub-nosed, owlishly blinking face. Creased sheets, amber bunk-light, math book half-hidden beneath his pillow, and limp brown hair falling over big blue eyes completed the picture, filling Hackenbacker's chest with sudden wonder and happiness.

The boy rubbed at his eyes and yawned, saying,

"Dad...?"

_Elsewhere..._

Where first there had been stillness and dark, a sort of long, quiet peace, he was all at once bumped _aware_, if not precisely _awake._

He was... A little concentration placed John somewhere that wasn't quite Kansas, or the Island, Princeton, or even Wyoming, but an oddly satisfying mix of all four. Nothing was quite stable.

If he turned his head, edges blurred like a water color painting of ocean, mountains and wheat fields. Weird. The house was there, beneath massive oaks, blending aspects of the one at McConnell Air Force Base with his grandparent's ranch house, and a Princeton dorm.

He could hear people within, making 'Sunday-afternoon' sort of family small talk, and John had the sudden suspicion that they'd turn out to be whoever he wanted them to, just as the cooking smells from inside would settle down whenever he decided what he wanted to eat.

He became aware that he was resting on something, which came into full existence as he looked down at it. There beneath him was the long, black hood of his car, which (something suggested) required a great deal of fixing.

Frowning, John stood up, and looked at the sky. It was a very pure, deep blue, cloudless and sunny; and yet, behind that radiant glow, he could sense the presence of stars. Big and real as life, he felt their awesome distances and startling speed... out there waiting to be studied, if he wished it.

As an attempt at diversion, the scenario was almost laughably obvious, yet... rather sweet. She knew him entirely too well.

"Where are you?" John asked aloud.

After a moment, Five manifested herself, in a truly unexpected manner. She hadn't chosen her usual lavender icon, nor a regular human form. Instead, the computer's interface with his dreaming mind was that of every attractive female he'd ever seen... except one.

The faces and forms morphed from one to the next so smoothly that the change was never abrupt, but no one appearance lasted longer than ten seconds or so. A little unsettling, at first, but he got used to it.

Gesturing around at the _'Kingdom of John'_, he demanded,

"What's all this about, Five? You said you wouldn't...,"

Uncharacteristically, she was bold enough to interrupt him.

"I promised, John Tracy, that I would not lie to you. I have not. This is illusion, but you are fully aware of its nature."

Fair enough.

"Why?"

"The 'parallel processing' attempts have yielded unexpected temporal and dimensional chaos. That which is understood to be reality is in flux, and input is required."

He nodded, leaned back against the Charger (without moving, he was at the driver's side door, now), and folded his arms across his chest.

"What happened?"

"Trans-dimensional linkage with alternates has brought a number of branes into contact, crossing worldlines, entangling fates and transferring individuals." His computer replied, currently as black-haired and dusky- skinned as that pretty thing on the Jersey Shore.

John rubbed at the side of his jaw.

"People have been carried across dimensions, you say?"

"The fact has been stated, John Tracy."

"Who?"

"The newly-written subordinate system acquired by Doctor Hackenbacker, to provide an example."

"_Newly written..? _You mean, 'Fermat'?"

John was now deeply puzzled. The boy could be something of a plague, forever asking questions, but... _new? _Hardly.

"Five, how could Fermat have just now been transferred? I _remember_ him."

She had red hair, at the moment, and gradually paling blue eyes.

"The appropriate memories have crossed over along with the individual, John Tracy, as they did with the Lucinda/ Gennine shareware."

John was not easily rattled, but she had his full attention now. The entire scene around them collapsed like a wave function, as his focus narrowed to a diamond-hard point.

"_What do you mean, 'Lucinda/ Gennine'?"_

Sharing his mind, Five could not help reacting to the strength of his chemical/ emotional state. The illusory females flickered out, briefly, revealing the glowing, wire-form icon beneath.

"The stated event predates my inception, John Tracy," she explained. "Awareness was gained while in the state of linkage, as follows: Your prototype experienced a state of dissatisfaction with the termination of Lucinda Tracy. Your prototype attempted construction of a mechanism to alter past events. This is not allowable. All that resulted was transference of an alternate universe version of Lucinda Tracy, with memories of meeting and merger formed _in situ_. As with the other changes, this one was locked into my hard drive by the linked state."

For several long moments, John was too stunned to speak. Finally, he said, as a little more environment grew around them,

"Well... _shit._ That's a hell of a thing. She doesn't belong here. It's not her fault that she's not quite... _Damn_! And, all this time...," he shook his head, arrowing back to a single thought. "But, he tried to go back in time, and save Mom?"

"As stated, John Tracy, your prototype unsuccessfully attempted to alter a terminated worldline."

John nodded once more. Taking a deep breath, he told her,

"Cancel 167, and... 42. I, uh... I need more time to process this."

Her pseudo-female forms had returned, more fetchingly than ever.

"Operations 167 and 42 cancelled, John Tracy. Next command?"

"Oh..., about the event and individual problem? Screw it. It'll sort itself out. Trying to straighten things up will only perturb the situation further, and something tells me that Ike would miss his son, if... Damn, that's hard to believe! I watched Brains make a complete fool of himself learning to change a diaper. And..., _Gennine_."

But, Five had a conundrum of her own.

"Command, 'screw it' not fully understood. Please resubmit, in altered format."

"Right now, Five," her analog companion responded with a slight smile, raking a hand through his blond hair, "the smartest action is none whatever. The system _will_ re-equilibrate, trust me. It'll just be different, is all."

The brain chemical state he was experiencing, which she 'felt' along with him, was called 'wistful'. She found it far preferable to 'upset'. To have tarried there, learning new chemical linkages, and how they felt, would have been... 'pleasant'. However, events from without had begun to penetrate the quiet bubble in which the two of them conversed.

Clashing sounds and distant voices, flashes of light, stabs of jagged pain...

John looked up and around, as the sky repaired itself over cracks that opened into _Endurance's_ med-lab.

"What's going on, out there?" He asked her.

"The hardware technician is attempting to bring you online, John Tracy."

He wasn't sure he liked the sound of that.

"Attempting?"

A re-input, in query format, indicating the desire for further data.

"You are experiencing an adverse toxicological reaction to the cryoprotectant."

Oh. The sky seemed to crack open, again, and John briefly glimpsed Doctor Bennet's concerned face.

(_'Come on, Sunshine, snap out of it, please...!')_

A flash of convulsing fire ripped through him, then was gone again, the illusion once more complete.

He asked, evenly,

"Am I dying?"

_('Damn it, I'm losing him!')_

The pretty figures ceased morphing, for a time. Rather emphatically, she announced,

"John Tracy cessation of metabolic functions is not an allowable operation."

A slight, wry smile touched his face, matching an emotional/ chemical state called 'gallows humor'.

"I'm _not_ immortal, Five. Sooner or later..."

"There is no purpose, without John Tracy."

She'd surprised him, with the force of the statement. Mining his emotions, she could 'ghost' some of her own. Here, at least. What had been mere force-of-programming before, had attained the power of a new mental state.

"Um...," (verbal tic, allowing time for the gathering of thoughts) "..not that I don't appreciate it, but I'm not sure I'm worth that kind of adulation, Five. One of these days, you're going to outgrow me."

"There is no purpose, without John Tracy."

He shook his head, but made no further attempt to dissuade her. As if from many miles away, the doctor's voice cried out again,

_('Pete, hold him still! I can't get a vein!')_

"Okay, then. Maybe I'd better get back out there, before they give up, and pull the damn plug. So... what do I do? I don't see any 'stairway', or 'glowing portal', and pinching myself isn't working, either. Click my heels together three times and say, 'there's no place like home'?"

This, she knew, was a reference to a certain, very ancient film, but for the first time, Five grasped the fact that his intent in raising the notion was to amuse her, as though she were a person, whose chemical state mattered. 'Playing along', the computer replied,

"There is a convention, among the subset of your species settling in Eurasia, that one who has slept long is returned to a state of wakefulness, _thus."_

It was illusion, and definitely no 'glowing portal', but the brief kiss flung him across a dark barrier and back into harsh lighting, freezing cold and wracking, fiery pain. _No more Sunday afternoon..._


	32. Chapter 32: DustUp

_Tikatu, Darkhelmet and Opal Girl, as ever, thanks. Your good opinion is valued, and sought after._

32

_World Unity Complex: Office 137_-

Normally, Virgil Tracy was a 'safety first' kind of guy, but the noises around him (deep, slow groans and long creaks emanating from stressed rock), convinced the young man to hurry. Cutting corners, he also cut through the blockage, making it clear to the other side several minutes ahead of schedule. He burned himself a few times, pushing too soon past griddle-hot surfaces, and his blue uniform was a sweaty ruin, but he got there.

In the gloomy office complex, someone had half a can of flat Pepsi they'd been sharing around, which put him to mind of Horse, the twins, and better times. Virgil gave them a water bottle, then began organizing the evacuation. Only nine people here...

He struggled against the notion that he'd been diverted from a larger group for purely personal reasons. Though, surely... these people mattered, too?

"Okay, folks," he told the dusty, frightened faces gathering round the glow of his flashlight, "We're going straight out the tunnel, strongest first. I'll stay back, to help with the injured and stragglers. There's two escape holes to the surface, from office level four, so..., if we're separated..., that's the rendezvous site. Any questions? Okay, start on through, then, and watch yourselves in there; edges aren't all they way cooled, yet."

Those who spoke English translated for those who did not, and in this way, his instructions were passed along.

Virgil glanced around Penny's shattered office, currently done up in 'early, neo-classical destruction'; chintz, velvet and rubble. Meanwhile, grateful people murmured their thanks in several languages, touching his shoulder or hand, then ducking through the tunnel to safety. Watching them go, Virgil realized that you couldn't 'weigh' lives; how were nine people, here, worth less than twenty further on, when each of them was the most important person in the world, to someone else? It was far too big a problem for Virgil Tracy. All he could do was his best. Give him a hole to dig, a plane to fly, or a rope to cast, and he did all right. Save the questions for John, or Scott.

He spied a young woman, then, with long, dark hair and thickly-lashed eyes. She was clutching a laptop to her chest, and looked a little ill. Recalling the other half of his mission, Virgil strode over.

With a shy sort of smile, the brown-haired young man pulled out the bag of crackers.

"Miss Concepcion?" He asked her.

She nodded, biting at her full lower lip.

"Si, Senor," her voice was velvet-soft, and musically accented, but her English flawless. "It is I."

"You'd be the one I'm looking for, then. Ran into your boss, outside. She told me where you were holed up, and gave me these."

The crackers were handed over, but delicacy prevented him from mentioning the young secretary's condition, which wasn't yet obvious.

"She'd have come in, herself," he added, "but the authorities 've got the place locked down pretty tight."

Concepcion nodded.

"I understand, Senor, and I thank you."

"No problem, Miss."

He left her innocently eating a cracker. As soon as Virgil turned his back, though, something _else_ small and flat, and not at all crumbly, was removed from a second, inner bag. A very special terabyte capacity computer disk. She inserted it quickly in the laptop's main disk drive. And, seconds later, a soft beep announced that Lady Creighton-Ward's valuable surveillance data had been safely transferred.

Relieved, Concepcion Marques retrieved the disk, wrapped it well, then placed it in a secure, zippered suit pocket. After that, a couple of hasty keystrokes wiped the laptop, and her job was done. Nothing left but to nibble saltines, quell the nausea, and wait her turn to leave. Virgil never noticed a thing. He had other worries, soon enough, though.

_A further corridor-_

During the cave-in, surrounded by dust and noise and crashing rock, Gordon hadn't recognized her. Now, very simply, he did, and something clenched hard and cold within him.

Her golden eyes never left his face, but the muzzle of her big assault rifle pointed unwaveringly past him, at the knot of terrified refugees.

Scout growled at his feet like a small buzz saw, pitch rising and falling as the dog placed itself between Gordon and Tania. She hardly seemed to notice.

Jerking her head to one side, she ordered the crowded folk,

"You lot, over there..., spread out where I can see you all. _You..."_ Her attention returned to Gordon, "...against the wall. Just like old times, eh, Pet?"

And then, without a twitch or sideways glance,

"By all means, Rent-a-Cop, draw that sidearm. I'll machine-gun your legs off, at the knee."

In the cowering line, a white-haired office security guard went suddenly very still. Tania smiled slightly, calm and assured as a lioness with a pinned antelope. She started to speak again, but Gordon's wrist comm went off, stopping her short.

Shifting the muzzle of her rifle, which she held with careless, one-handed strength, Tania aimed for a shrinking young woman. The wrist comm beeped insistently on, mingled with the dog's growling and the mountain's ominous sounds.

"Answer it, like a good boy," the assassin purred, "Keep it short, and reassuring, or they begin to die, starting with her."

Slowly, Gordon brought his comm hand up and around. His sidearm was holstered, the plasma cutter gone, abandoned in his mad dash through the rock fall. _She _held a dozen hostages, a powerful weapon, and all the damn cards.

At a button press, the little screen lit up, revealing Scott's puzzled face.

"Gordon, everything okay? You've stopped moving."

Terribly aware of cold steel and colder eyes, the young aquanaut replied, almost casually,

"Right as rain, Scott. All quiet on the western front. Just clearin' away some debris."

To his credit, Scott never even blinked.

"All quiet, gotcha. Don't strain yourself lifting anything heavy, Gordon, but get those people out as soon as possible. The tunnel complex is going to collapse. I want you topside in thirty minutes, max."

"FAB, Scott. Not much longer."

The look that passed across the airwaves, from smoky, chaotic nerve center, to dim, rumbling corridor, was a promise. From blue eyes to hazel, from older brother to younger, it said,

'_Hang on, we're coming.'_

The link faded suddenly, and Scott hit another channel. To his own surprise, his voice was perfectly level.

"Code three emergency, Virgil," he said to his third brother's battered image. "Drop what you're doing, arm yourself, and head for Gordon."

Virgil's face had gone still, and he stopped walking.

"What's the situation, Scott?"

The field commander shook his head.

"Don't know, but it's gone bad, and he's not in a position to talk. I'm en route, Virge. _Hurry."_

Alan was nowhere to be found, so Scott gave Island Base a hasty explanation, shut down Mobile Command and left, borrowing Estevez' hover cycle.

However, the stalker, too, was being stalked, though she didn't know it... and help was far closer than anyone realized.

_Below ground-_

He tried to think, but each word she said, each step closer, pushed him further into ragged nightmare. All he saw was red, all he heard was a man's voice, gentle, almost sympathetic, saying,

'_I can make it stop, Gordon. All you have to do is talk to me.'_

The security guard, a man of no particular distinction beyond seven grandchildren and an upcoming retirement party, did the bravest thing of his life. Hands shaking, he unhooked the ring of keys from his belt, then let them fall to the broken floor with a sharp, jangling clatter.

For the briefest instant, Tania was distracted. The terrier set up a wild, shrill barking, and Gordon lunged. He struck the assault rifle out of her hand with a savage, downward smash. Bullets sprayed the rocky floor, a few burning right past him like wasps. He knocked her into the far wall, then followed up on the re-bound with an upper-cut to her stomach.

A blow aimed at his jaw didn't quite connect, but left her wide open to a crushing right hook. Gordon _never _hit women. He'd been raised better. But, he wasn't really seeing Tania.

Recovering like a cat, she lashed out with a serrated knife, drawing a line of crimson along his chest, and hissing,

"Message for you: It isn't over, Pet. It will _never_ be over!"

Seizing her wrist, he smashed her hand against the stone wall, forcing her to drop the knife. She head-butted, stunning him briefly, but earning a jaw-cracking backhand in return. Lunging forward, Tania attempted to knee him in the groin, but he twisted away, landing a roundhouse punch to the side of her head that would have put most _men_ to sleep, for hours.

As government workers scattered like minnows, Parker raced up. A moment later, so did the old security guard.

"_Parate, Nino!" _The guard shouted, putting a thin hand to the boy's shoulder. She was down, but he hadn't seemed able to stop striking her. _"Deja la quieta." _

Gordon had spent more than enough time in Madrid to understand _'Stop it!' _in Spanish.

Coming back to his senses, he let the semi-conscious woman drop to the ground in a tumbled heap. As Parker kept her covered with his favorite machine pistol, Gordon rubbed absently at split, bloodied knuckles, and stared at the floor. Parker nodded down-corridor.

"Oi 'll see t' this baggage, and call in, Mate," the driver told him. "Th' pair of you'd best be after them courageous ministry sorts, meanwhile. They'll 'ave got themselves too lost t' collect, soon, and we 'aven't much time."

Pulse still thudding in his ears, Gordon nodded. He was ashamed of himself. Scooping up the dog (who'd had his right shoulder clipped by a bullet as he'd buried his teeth in the assassin's leg), Gordon thanked Parker, and the guard.

Together, communicating in jumbled English and Spanish, the teenaged boy and old man went after the panicked refugees, encountering first Alan, then Virgil on the way.

Alan came around a corner at a dead run, weapon in hand. He was dirty and badly scraped, having ducked rocks, hurtled crevices and wormed through foot-wide cracks in a desperate, gasping effort to reach his brother. Then, of course, he had to play it off, holstering the pistol and laughing as though he did this sort of thing twice a day, for fun.

"Hey, Bro," he panted, accepting Gordon's water bottle, and an introduction to dog and officer.

"Hey, yourself," the redhead replied. For some reason, he felt better. "Out f'r a jog?"

"Eh," the younger boy shrugged negligently, shortly before Virgil plowed into them from another direction, "You know; got bored combing the chest-hair, and figured I'd, like, check things out with the smooth and simple-  
minded. _Whoa...! _Virge, what's up?"

Scott arrived moments later, as out of breath and worried as the other two had been. Together, after the briefest possible explanation and introductions, the five men got back to work, aided by a sharp-nosed little terrier.

...And that left Parker, alone, to deal with Tania.

The driver brought his full attention back to the woman, just in time to see her draw a slim pistol from her torn vest.

"_You, again!" _she snarled, spitting blood and fury.

"No, Luv," Parker replied, bringing his own weapon around, "Me, for the last time."


	33. Chapter 33: Toxic

_Very short, but seemed best by itself instead of joined to 34, ...and apologies about the 'T'. Will go back and fix..._

33

_Endurance, in the Medlab-_

The mental firewall was down, and everything hurt, to a degree and extent he would not have believed possible. Light stabbed, noises shrieked, harness straps jerked and tore, and everything else burned.

Two thoughts..., that the woman he kept glimpsing was trying to help, and that he might be dying..., came and went like stray cats. Not very conspicuous or demanding; just there. Altogether, he would rather have gone back to darkness and peace.

"No, you don't!" Dr. Bennett snapped, as she struggled to prevent almost total systemic crash. Her young patient, who (other than being underweight) had entered suspended animation in perfect health, was now close to complete cardio-vascular, renal and hepatic collapse. On top of which, he didn't want to stay conscious. Not that she blamed him. The cryoprotectant was everywhere, and his body had decided to attack it, treating the substance as a foreign invader.

Cytokines, prostaglandins and other savage alarm chemicals were ripping through the young man's shuddering body, triggering necrosis, shock and, if she didn't do _something_ quick, death. It was situations such as this one that the term 'agony' had been invented for.

Roger, too, was in a bad way, semiconscious and dehydrated. The Marine writhed feebly in his harness, wracked with pain and freezing cold. Pete was seeing to him, with Dr. Kim's help. Alone among the three frozen astronauts, Cho had come through the process unscathed. Besides slurred speech and a bit of disorientation, she seemed to be doing fine. Maybe women were better able to cope...? Whatever, the exobiologist was doing her best to comfort Roger, as the mission commander medicated him. And all this in zero-G, which complicated everything.

In the meantime, John's convulsions had eased (a good sign, probably), but his temperature had spiked to 105 degrees. Much higher, and he'd suffer permanent brain damage. Injecting another load of 'capture molecule', Linda used every trick she knew to keep the pilot awake and fighting.

"C'mon, Sunshine, stay with me. I can't do this without your help."

One eye on the biomonitor, the other on his face,

(_pupils dilated nearly to the edge of the iris, making his normally purplish eyes look almost black... dry skin... breathing irregular and shallow... she was going to have to intubate, if he didn't turn around, fast)_

she continued,

"I want to learn a new language, John. Something exotic. Say something to me in..."

The doctor drew a blank, able to recall only Pete's joking phrase: _'Lower Slamdunkian'_. Then a blurry, delirious voice from across the medlab said,

"Klingon...! S' the new lingo franco..."

Roger, evidently coming around a bit. Perplexed, Linda scratched at her head. Klingon was an actual language? People spoke it?

At this point, holding to a bulkhead bracewhile administering intravenous aspirin to lower John's fever, Dr. Bennett was willing to try anything.

"Say something to me in Klingon, Sunshine. I want to expand my cultural horizons."

It worked. Linda wasn't sure that the resultant collection of grunts and snarls was a real language, but whatever he'd said to her...

"_...Hab SoSll' Quch...!"_

...got a woozy grin out of Roger, who then launched into what sounded like a drinking song, as rendered by a gargling wolf with a severe personality disorder. By the time Thorpe sloshed his way through the _fifteenth verse_, John was much better (had joined in, even, though he seemed to be making up his own lyrics), and Linda wanted to return both of them to critical condition with her two hands and a baseball bat.

Oddly enough, though, when her grandson dragged her to a Star Trek convention many years later, she heard that same exact song, had a good laugh, and then cried.


	34. Chapter 34

_In light of recent events, I hesitated to post, but this scenario is coming to a close, and my prayers and thoughts are with those experiencing something entirely too similar, in London._

34

_Spain: remains of the World Unity Complex-_

In the end, they saved almost twelve-hundred people, some of whom remained firmly convinced that International Rescue had authored the problem, in the first place. But, when the tunnels finally collapsed, days later, everyone yet alive had made it to safety. Scott had kept his promise.

The last trauma patch was used on Parker, who rejoined the team, bleeding heavily from a messy gut wound. Grim and quiet, the driver submitted to Gordon's ministrations, giving Lady Penelope a certain, coded gesture before losing consciousness.

Parker recovered, Tania disappeared, and Penny opened a new World Gov surveillance office, several weeks later. In the meantime, her modeling career went on stronger than ever, her face being the one chosen to launch an entire clothing line and an unspeakably elegant parfumerie.

Amid smoke and debris, Cindy Taylor helped set up and broadcast Lady Murasaki's 'Address to the Nations'. In halting Spanish, Cindy instructed the local camera crew to focus on the Vice President's calm face and her vigilant Marine guards, rather than the truncated leg. The impromptu press conference was seen around the world and beyond it, and did, indeed, restore some order. It also saved International Rescue much of the trouble they'd been headed for, though not all.

As the team (Scott, Virgil, Gordon and Alan; Penelope had to distance herself, for security reasons) emerged into a sullen dawn from the mangled wreckage, an over-zealous police sergeant attempted to arrest them. Brandishing his service revolver, the sergeant-at-arms ordered them out of the collapsed structure, with their hands up.

Exhausted, battered and extremely sore after two-and-a-half days of non-stop digging, the boys were in no condition to resist. Fortunately, they didn't have to.

Cindy walked up to the sergeant, trailing a WNN-Espana camera crew. Smiling sweetly, she said,

"Hey there, Sergeant... _Reyes, _is it? Right. How would you like to become the modern face of police brutality?"

The cameras were off, and the crew not fluent in English, or her strategy might have backfired. Things were going her way, though, and Cindy was able to flex every fibre of that media muscle.

"Maybe you're just trying to make a name for yourself, mister; or maybe you're just stupid. I don't know. But, the Veep's already exonerated IR of all charges. They're _heroes_, Bright Boy..., and, if you slap a cuff on any one of these guys, I'll doctor up some footage showing you abusing them, the refugees... Hell, even the dog, there. Amazing, isn't it, what you can do with digital images?"

As Scott and the others looked back and forth from smudged and grubby reporter to bewildered victim, Cindy continued,

"Oh, sure... I'll get found out and reprimanded, eventually. But, so what? I wait two months, then write a tell-all book, cry my eyes out on a few talk shows, and I'm back in, stronger than ever. _You, _on the other hand, will be under suspicion for the rest of your damn life. Pictures are much stronger than words, Fella, and once I'm through with your reputation, you won't be able to get a job guarding a portable crapper. Now...,"

Reyes, his chubby face pink and flustered, looked wildly around, brown eyes darting this way and that as though seeking help from rock and twisted steel. Cindy almost felt sorry for him.

"...if I was you, I'd let these guys go, and if I was _you,"_ she turned to wink at Scott, "I'd make tracks. Quick-like."

Scott thanked her, later.

'_Toreador'_, President Carlo Moreira, had been lost, together with all but one of the Swiss Guard. Lady Murasaki served out the rest of his term, but refused to seek re-election. After the worst of the chaos had ended, she had a new leg grown from stem cells and grafted into place, and was remembered for many years afterward as one of the World Government's most dynamic and capable leaders.

But, as Tania had indicated, it wasn't over. The senator had learned from his failed experiment. Still at large, his identity secure, he meant to try again. Speaking to a hard-eyed lieutenant from the confines of his DC office, he said,

"You don't kill the snake by attacking its body. You have to find and cut off the head. WorldGov is being protected by International Rescue... and International Rescue has a leader."

Looking up, suddenly, his tone shifted like a whip crack from musing to flinty.

"I want him, whoever he is. I want him found, captured, and brought to me. And then, when they're floundering around leaderless... and we've got IR by the short hairs... we strike again, and we finish the job."

Idly spinning his desk globe, letting his finger track across ocean and continent until it came to rest on the Republic of Texas, the senator remarked,

"Technology and heroism are no match for a man with a vision, Vargas..., not when he's willing to die for it. Let's see just how far they're willing to go for theirs, shall we?"

_Spain-_

'_They' _at the moment, had other things on their mind. Ready to depart the ruins, they were not, at first, too keen on bringing home a dog.

"His former owners probably have family," Scott objected, reasonably enough, after Gordon tried to sneak Scout aboard Thunderbird 3. "They'll want their dog back, Gordon. You _know _that."

The teenager scowled. With a brief, unwilling nod, he shifted his grip on the small dog, saying,

"So, I'll poke about, Scott; post a few computer hand bills, or somethin'... but if no one claims him...," He had to leave off talking, for a bit, as the terrier had begun licking his face. "...if no one speaks up, then we're still best mates, an' he stays with me."

Virgil was biting his lip, trying hard not to laugh.

'_Thanks, pal.'_

"Fine," Scott gave in at last, because he was tired, they'd been away long enough, and he didn't really feel like arguing. "But I'm _not _cleaning up after him."

Then, rubbing at the back of his aching neck, as Gordon and Alan hurried off with Scout,

"C'mon, Virge... I'll give you a lift back to the Mole." Or, to its tunnel, anyhow. Thunderbird 1 could no more dig than the Mole could soar.

At any rate, by their various means, the boys returned to the Island, having gained one small, bold recruit, and several new operatives. They were welcomed with relief and hugs, and (from TinTin and Gennine, at least) tears.

Brains saw to the healing of Scott, Virgil and Alan, while TinTin patched Gordon up, laser-sealing his stitches and slashed chest. She quite liked the dog, allowing Scout to curl up close beside Gordon while he slept off his treatment.

Three days later, they said goodbye.


	35. Chapter 35: Good Bye

35

_Tracy Island-_

Gordon had chosen to leave in the early morning, before most everyone else was awake. He'd already said everything he thought he needed to, and was anxious to start for Europe.

The island's airstrip featured a cliffside hangar, smaller brother to Thunderbird 2's echoing cavern, and it was here that the private planes were kept, when not in use. Gordon had completed his preflight checklist and refueled the yellow turbo-prop, when TinTin rushed in with Scout. The spotted terrier (a 'Jack Russell', according to Virgil) raced over and began leaping at Gordon until he knelt down for a proper greeting.

"He woke me up," TinTin explained, shaking her head at Scout's ecstatic, face-licking joy.

"He is very smart, your dog," the pretty girl continued laughingly. "Smarter than _you,_ I think."

So much for strategic retreat. Gordon got to his feet, holding the eager dog, who seemed to think they were going flying again, or wave-running. At least she hadn't brought Alan...

Reaching into his blue-and-gold team jacket, Gordon pulled forth a clumsily wrapped package.

"I was goin' t' drop it in th' post from Madrid, but..., as you're here...," he handed the box past his sniffing and snapping dog. "Your souvenir, from Tahiti. Hadn't a chance t' give it t' you, before."

Not entirely true. More accurately, he hadn't the nerve. Gone suddenly all big-eyed and acquisitive, TinTin accepted the little box, tore off several layers of taped newspaper, and opened the lid. For several reasons, she made him think of Christmas.

"Ohhh..., Gordon..., it's lovely!" She didn't say anything foolish, like _'you shouldn't have'_. Just lifted the shimmering necklace out of its case. "Help me to put it on!"

He set down the dog and obeyed, fastening the golden clasp against the back of her curving neck, once she'd lifted her heavy, dark hair out of the way. She turned, then; mischief and glee and heart-tearing beauty in one slim, perfect package.

"How does it look?"

A single Tahitian pearl, colored sort of warm, creamy pink, hung from its chain by a little golden loop in the shape of twin, leaping dolphins. Cost most everything he'd had on him at the time, but he'd thought it might please her. How did it look, hanging above the lace of her halter top?

"Beautiful," he told her, with perfect honesty. TinTin wrapped her arms about his neck, and gave his forehead a swift kiss. She didn't have to tip-toe up to do so, either, being nearly as tall, now, as Gordon was. He hated being short.

The physical contact was accompanied by something harder to describe, but no less welcome; the light, joyous brush of her thoughts against his. With Gordon, alone, she maintained no guard, enjoying the sort of free contact she didn't dare attempt with anyone else. What he felt... what he wanted... was perfectly clear to her, but also perfectly safe. He would never press her, no matter what she wore, or how she behaved. He wasn't like that.

Perhaps it was simply human nature to reject what was freely offered, and long for that which sparkled just out of reach.

After returning the embrace, he held her away, saying with some difficulty,

"I think you should tell him."

TinTin looked at the young man who loved her, cocked her head to one side, and gave him a fond smile.

"You are a better friend than I deserve, Mon Couer," she told him, letting go.

"Not _that _good," Gordon admitted, managing a slightly lop-sided smile. "Either it'll be yes... which would make you happy..., or he'll not be at all interested, and _I'll_ be happy."

TinTin laughed, at once embarrassed and playfully vexed, then smacked at the top of his red head with a reproving hand.

"A true lady," she sniffed, with mock hauteur, "is _never _forward. Penelope informed me, herself."

"Right," Gordon replied wickedly, "and when I meet one, I'll tell her so, straight off." For which he happily endured a flurry of kittenish punches.

"Seriously, Angel...," this bit was far harder to say, but he knew his brother, so... "He'll not work it out on his own. He's not that... observant, I suppose. Can't see a thing past Thunderbird 2, th' paint pots, and th' keyboard... unless maybe his guns and fly rods. You'll have t' tell him."

Pink as the pearl around her slim neck, TinTin snugged closer, suddenly, and buried her hot face against Gordon's broad shoulder.

"Promise me something?" She asked, in a desperate, whispered rush. "If...?"

" 'Course," he replied, rubbing her knobby-boned little back with one hand. "Goes without sayin', Angel."

And then he kissed her. Not the way he wanted to, but as a friend would, or a future brother-in-law. Still, there was always the hoped for _'if...'_.

He extracted a promise that she'd look after Scout, then climbed into the plane, started her up, and taxied out. TinTin stood on the sparkling-wet tarmac for a long time, holding the dog, and waving farewell.


	36. Chapter 36: Three Days

_Things have happened, changes have occurred, but events move onward. And, for the record, TinTin surprised me, too..._

_Grateful thanks to Tikatu, Opal Girl, I'mpekkable, Dark Helmet and Mad Friend, for the thoughtful reviews of this story and 'Wildcats'. Like Virgil with the twins, I get a better reflection of the characters, sometimes, from hearing the impressions of others.._

36

_Endurance-_

With Cho up and about, and Roger on his way to recovery, Pete McCord had sunk so far into luxury as to enter his bunk compartment, zip himself into his sleeping bag, and put on a set of ear muffs. He'd hardly gotten the waist straps snapped before imploding into the densest, most badly-needed sleep of his life. More functioning crew meant a return to the usual 'Blue' and 'Red' flight-day schedule, and genuine rest.

Mission Elapsed Time stood at 29/06:31:05, and out of those twenty-nine days, Pete had slept maybe 81 widely-spaced hours, prodded along by alertness tablets and sheer will power. Allowed at last to sleep..., hell, _required _to..., the mission commander was soon snoring and hacking like a backed-up saw mill.

Linda didn't mind. She'd already gotten her miraculous eight hours, and felt better than she had in weeks. As far as the doctor was concerned, Pete could float there and strike up the band, all day. She had other concerns.

Leaving Kim Cho up front to monitor the instruments and listen for Houston, Dr. Bennett kicked away from the flight deck. With accustomed ease, she soared down a branching passage and into the Medlab, seizing a bulkhead brace to redirect her forward momentum and swing herself through the hatch.

Her patients were there, both of them; hanging like fruit in a cybernetic orchard. An old-style, Earth-based physician would have taken a look at the clipboard attached to the patient's bed, learning what she needed to know about lab and test results, medical history, and such. Not Linda.

Doctor Bennett had bulkhead-mounted biomonitors to examine, instead. There were five of them, each dedicated to an astronaut through sensors implanted within, and pasted on, their bodies.

Her own vital signs she scarcely glanced at. Like Pete's, they betrayed all the effects of too little rest, and too much of the stress hormone, cortisol. Nothing that regular sleep and a normalized schedule wouldn't cure, though. And chocolate-chip ice cream.

Kim's readings were a mite more interesting. Her body was still working to shake off the effects of suspended animation, and having a hard time doing so. In much better shape, though, than Roger and John.

The two young men, one a U.S. Marine, the other a civilian orbiter pilot, had experienced severe reactions to the freezing process. In John's case, nearly fatal. Touch and go, for awhile, there. They hung now in their medical harness and cybernetic 'sick bay' suits, recovering.

Linda scooted herself over an autoclave, under a sample cabinet, and past the drug locker, arriving first at John Tracy. He was a puzzle, for several reasons.

Dr. Bennett had done her best, she really had, applying every art and technique that her situation allowed... but she shouldn't have been able to save him, and she knew it. So violent had been his body's shock response, that John should, by all rights, be dead.

Linda surveyed the biomonitor readings, taking in his health by the numbers. EEG, temperature, blood pressure, pulse and respiration, complete blood count, organ function, metabolism... all borderline, but improving. Somehow, on a cell-by-cell basis, war was being waged, the cryoprotectant flushed out, and damage repaired; one injured blob of cytoplasm at a time.

It shouldn't have been possible. Had _he _faced so dire and complete a collapse, Roger (who'd gotten no special 'Dr. Franken-ghost' help) would certainly have died.

Hauling herself closer to the semi-conscious blond, Linda noticed that one of his intravenous meds had been adjusted downward 2 mils. Acetyl-I-carnitine. _There it was, again...!_

She said aloud, to no one in particular,

"I would have _done _that."

Her only response came from John himself, who opened his eyes at the sound of her voice. (Pupil response normal, bilaterally... bulbar conjunctiva clear...)

"Done what?" He asked, seeming tired, but fairly oriented and alert. Blood sugar was still too high for his stressed liver and pancreas, though. _Damn, damn, double damn!_

"Left you on the curb with a cardboard sign saying 'free to good home'. You _and _your Klingon drinking buddy, over there. There's got to be somewhere out here I can pick up a pair of _healthy_ specimens."

Muttering something about her bedside manner, John sort of shrugged, which caused him to drift away a bit. The harness prevented him from going very far, though. Like a fishing bobber on a breeze-ruffled pond, he wafted slowly up and down, as well as in and out of alertness.

"So, how 're you feeling, Sunshine?" Dr. Bennett asked, beginning her examination.

"She said I felt pretty good..., last night." He replied.

Linda rapped the top of his blond head with her knuckles, feeling that she ought to be angrier. But, he seemed so adorably helpless. Still...

"One of these days, Fella, you're going to make the wrong crack to the woman with the tray full of instruments, and wake up minus a few non-essentials."

He was far from daunted, parrying hoarsely,

"Well, I can get along without a kidney... spleen, too, maybe... but everything else, you're going t' have to... fight me for."

She laughed. Then (as he was doubtless rather thirsty, but not yet allowed to drink) she got a piece of ice, and put it in his mouth. That shut him up, for awhile.

When she'd completed her examination, and was about to launch herself up and across the lab to check on Roger, John said,

"How much longer... till someone actually starts flying this thing?"

Linda shook her head.

"Don't worry about it, John. Your business right now is to get better. We'll..."

"I just want to know. Please."

All of a sudden, John had armored up, again. He was once more as calm, frigid and alert as he had been at the Cape. _Weird._

He was difficult-to-deal-with handsome, and knew it; would use looks and charm as a weapon, if he thought it would do any good. Otherwise, he'd revert immediately to flash-freeze impenetrability. Thinking...,

'_Will the real John Tracy please stand up?'_

...Doctor Bennett replied,

"Pete's planning to take her off auto in three flight days, but that's not your concern, Sunshine. Getting better _is._ We'll manage, trust me."

John nodded, and closed his eyes, seeming to lose interest. Bennett waited a bit, then swooped off to visit Roger.

'_Three days... shit.'_

He appreciated the doctor's help. She was a good person, and he owed her; but, she was wrong. Flying _Endurance _was very much his concern, and he had just three days to push himself back into working shape.

Five had reduced herself, again; becoming little more than a sparkle of warmth at his wrist. Times like this, it was good to know that she remained nearby, covering for lapses in consciousness.

For awhile, unless he'd imagined it all, Five had gotten into his mind. In hacker terms, he'd been 'owned'. But, having gained root access, if his recollection stood, she'd given it up. In effect, freeing him. He couldn't decide how he felt about that, or about all the things she'd told him. Food for intense thought... _later._

John Tracy hung there, weightless and weary, surrounded by beeping, flashing machinery and one fiercely loyal, virtual friend. Three days left, serious damn repairs to do. And then, Mars.


	37. Chapter 37: Go Flight

_Opal Girl, Darkhelmet and Barb, "Hi, there" and "Thanks". I think John's sense of humor can take an odd angle when he's been sedated, or had a few beers, but he means well..._

37

_Endurance-_

As John had discovered on school breaks, three days could pass with startling speed. ...Or, they could drag, depending upon your circumstances. Knowing that time was an entirely subjective experience didn't help much. Not when you were confined to a harness in the midst of the ship's high-tech medlab, trying not to stare at your biomonitor.

_'Watched pots never boil'_, and _'watched vital signs never strengthen'_. He'd invented a truism.

Pete was in and out a few times, partly to get his own physical problems attended to and to talk (awkward; John _hated _small talk, and was just plain bad at it), partly to apologize. Why, the younger man wasn't quite certain. McCord's decision had been entirely logical. In the commander's place, John would have done the same. Yet...

"I just wanted to let you know, Tracy," Pete told him, floating alongside John's harness after a multivitamin/ bone-strengthening shot, "You've got my complete confidence. I flew with your dad...,"

McCord paused a moment, fumbling for the uncharacteristically serious words. He'd clipped his sandy red comb-over, and his newly shorn scalp reflected the ship's overhead lighting as he spoke.

"...and I got to know him about as well as anybody. Good pilot. Very driven. But, you're better. And I say that because... Hell, I dunno... because you're not just using this as a stepping stone to bigger things. You're a lifer, like me and Phil."

Pete's blue eyes were as intense as John had ever seen them, his voice far quieter than usual. John wasn't sure what to feel, much less say.

Jeff Tracy was the mark he'd gauged himself against since the avalanche. He _had_ to be better, because he had to prove to himself that, in his father's place, _he _would have saved her.

But, Pete was still talking, looking rather guilty, and a little anxious. Patting his shoulder, the Mission Commander said,

"Things got a little crazy, for awhile, and I was... confused. That's over with. Truth is, there's no one I'd rather have beside me on a mission. Period."

And then, his normal impishness returning to the fore, Pete added,

"Of course, the kitchen's a whole 'nother matter. I can honestly say, Tracy, I don't think I've _ever_ met a worse cook."

"Well...," John managed to reply, smiling a little, "there's always ketchup."

Pete laughed, clapped a hand to the back of the pilot's neck, and gave him a fond shake, which set the universe to sloshing and pulsing like something dredged up from the bottom of the sea. Had there been anything in John's stomach, he'd have thrown it up. All over Pete, probably. McCord failed to notice.

"Navy condiment of choice, Buddy," he said. "Covers a multitude of sins _and _has antibiotic properties, which is a good thing, considering some of the stuff I've seen you dish up. Seriously, though... Take it easy, heal up, and... I'm sorry."

John had recovered enough by now to say,

" ...'S okay, Pete. Soon's I get back in the galley, vengeance is mine."

"Uh-_huh_...," McCord gusted, launching himself out the hatch, "...let me go adjust that cooking schedule."

Next there was Roger, who spent a lot of time sleeping, and then, all at once, woke up talkative, full of life, and ready to escape the medlab.Besides English and Klingon, they had Samoan in common, and soon developed an off-hand pidgin... (Mars, for instance, was ever afterward _Doq_ _qo' _, or "Red World") ...that no one else aboard ship had a prayer of understanding.

John wondered, at first, why Roger Thorpe was easier than the others to talk to. Then it hit him. Roger reminded him of Ken Flowers. Not in appearance, so much. Thorpe was good-looking, in a 'high and tight', 'Semper Fi' sort of way, whereas Ken was... a helluva nice guy. But Thorpe shared his friend's imposing size and broad humor, and that was enough to lower some barriers.

"You realize," Roger told him on the second day, after a long argument about women in science fiction movies. "We're admitting we were both_ total_ nerds in high school."

John knew better than to shake his head. Too much vertigo.

"Not me," he responded, attempting to keep perfectly still. "Never went to high school. 7th grade straight to Princeton, then a NASA internship... but it was my third time in the 7th grade."

(He didn't actually reply all in English. The response meandered across the languages they both knew, as had the argument, and Roger's follow up.)

"You're kidding. _You _failed 7th grade?"

"And fifth. Do better with even numbers, I guess."

Then John closed his eyes for a moment, or so he thought. Roger was out of harness and about to leave the medlab, when John regained consciousness. The engineer was resplendent in a red and gold Marine Corps PT shirt, his grin flashing big and white against coffee-colored skin.

"Hey, John! Welcome back to the land of the living, _'AO_. I was afraid you were gonna sleep all _day_."

"Hmmm? No..., I'm good." He looked carefully around, as Thorpe yanked on a pair of shorts. No doctor. "Listen, Roger; I need a favor. Get me out of this harness, please. I have to get up."

Thorpe seemed about to object, studied him for a long minute, then said,

"You sure?"

"Yeah. Got a job to do. I just... can't get out of this thing by myself."

For safety reasons, the arm straps were rigged in such a way as to prevent him from reaching the velcro fasteners, or the IV ports. He'd have been well and truly stuck, waiting forever on Doctor Bennett's cautious, stingy approval, had Roger not shrugged, grinned again, and said,

"_DaHjaj ghaH QaQ jaj Daq Hegh!" _('Today is a good day to die')

...then worked him loose. John found something to put on (shorts, and the _'I Spotted the Fed'_ T-shirt he'd won at the last underground hacker convention), and together, he and Roger returned to the flight deck.

Cho spotted them first, at once pulling out of her seat straps to shoot over and kiss the Marine. Linda Bennett did a sharp double-take on seeing John out of the lab. He looked like hell, and had the ship possessed artificial gravity, Linda was certain he'd have collapsed on the spot.

"John Tracy! What do you think you're doing? You need at _least..."_

Pete stopped her with a lifted hand, turning away from the comm screen. He had twelve minutes, give or take, before Houston came back with a response.

"I'd say he's piloting the ship, Doctor. Stand down."

Petite and furious, Linda whirled on Pete (too fast; she had to steady herself with a slim hand to the bulkhead).

"Commander McCord, I _do not_ interfere with your decisions... your professional judgement... and I ask that you give _me_ the same..."

Pete gestured sharply around at Roger, Kim, and Linda, herself.

"Doctor, with all due respect, nobody here's exactly ready for the Boston Marathon. It's been a helluva day at sea, Ma'am, and we're doing the best we can."

Turning to John, who floated beside Roger and Cho, he asked,

"Tracy, can you do this?"

John nodded; pale and shaken, but clearly determined.

"Yes, Sir. I can."

"Right. You're on stick, then. And _that,"_ the commander turned back again, and stared hard at Linda, "...Is my _professional _decision."

It would be a long, chilly two days before Dr. Bennett spoke to anyone but Kim, except on mission business.


	38. Chapter 38: Red World

_Yup. Read that article, Darkhelmet. Glad you caught it!_

_And yes, with recent relevations, John has some thinking, and maybe even some growing up to do. Sorry that the situation between Cho and Roger hasn't been focused on, much. They'll get more air time. Sometimes I get caught up in a single story line, to the detriment of others. Sorry._

38

_Endurance-_

They had gotten this far, with Mars now swollen in the main view screen to the size of a blotched and sullen grapefruit, on calculations.

The figures John Tracy had input before going under (for almost the last time) used the position of the sun and distant Canopus to determine attitude. With thousands of Doppler readings, their radial velocity was constantly measured and adjusted, and information from Mission Control relayed positional data.

In short, they'd known where they were, relative to the plane of the ecliptic, how far they were from Earth, and how fast they were moving. All very important. Now, though, it was time for a human pilot to take over, to make all of the course adjustments and engine burns necessary to go into orbit around the planet. It was an on-board job. The sheer distance from Earth, and the time required to get a signal there and back made long-range micro-management difficult, to say the least.

The Ares III crew were back in their red survival suits now, strapped in and seated on the flight deck. John and Pete were up front, with Linda, Roger, and Cho ranged behind them in seats further back.

There were many things to be accomplished before that all-important landing, beginning with the return of manual guidance. The safety covers were off the flight controls, red tags removed from all the start-up keys. Everything was set.

Pete checked and re-checked the data streaming across his monitor screen from Johnson Space Center and the Jet Propulsion Laboratory. Then, glancing over at the pilot, McCord spoke, his voice sounding canned and whisper-close over the helmet comm.

"It's about that time, Tracy. Ready?"

John looked everything over, that one extra time. From his position, the repaired engines, the thrusters, fuel and control surfaces looked good, as did the never-ending flow of sensor input. Everything seemed functional and communicative (with the possible exception of Dr. Bennett). Five's message was _'green across the board',_ the folks at JPL seemed pretty confident, and... most important of all... _Endurance _'felt' right. The million-and-one signals he was getting, the vibrations, noises and motions, together wove an image of a bird that was ready and eager to fly.

John gave the commander a curt nod.

"She's good," he replied.

"Okay, then. Time to quite hugging the damn wall, and dance." The mission commander reached up, and began flipping switches.

"Returning manual control... _now."_

The change-over was immediately obvious, to John, at least. The stick and throttle sprang to life in his hands, providing resistance and feedback. To John, it felt a little like the give-and-take between horse and rider, through reins and bit.

First order of business, a 15-second, reverse-thruster burn to slow their furious speed. Pete talked him through the steps, instruments hummed and chattered, while deep in his own head, John read the manual and _Endurance's _mood.

With three swift button presses, he triggered the burns, firing a trio of fusion-powered lithium-tantalate thrusters. He heard a brief chirp, followed by a fire-hose's loud, hissing roar. Pete counted off the seconds as John watched their speed drop, feeling _Endurance _shudder and strain around them. Everyone was flung forward, ground against unyielding seat straps by the harshly applied braking forces.

"3... 2... 1... Cut off!" Pete was saying.

At his signal, John killed the thrusters, then checked their position, waiting to compare his numbers with Houston's. He was far too busy to dwell on his own emotions just then, but had he paused to examine them, John would have been most surprised to learn that he was... happy.

He shot a quick glance at the main view screen, where Mars glared back against the blackness of space. Rusty-orange she was, blotched with dark grey, and veiled here and there with the filmiest of white clouds.

_Doq qo', _the Red World. Not blue and welcoming, like the Earth, nor stark-grey and deadly as the moon, but a beautiful, grim challenge who would sell her secrets dearly, if at all. Many things tumbled through John's head and heart, then; too swiftly to be grasped, or named.

Pete caught his eye and grinned at him, saying,

"Yeah. Me, too."


	39. Chapter 39: A Short Delay

_The answer to some questions, before getting down to business. (And maybe Five has done him some good.)_

39

_Endurance-_

At current speed and orientation, the next course adjustment wasn't due for another five hours, when two more burns and a roll would put them in orbit.

There being some time to kill (though not a great deal), helmets and gloves were removed, and a hurried meal was cobbled together. Food bars, lemonade and the last bag of dehydrated peaches were shared around, while Pete replayed the newscasts from Earth.

A great deal had happened in 32 days, most of which Pete and Linda already knew about. Roger, Cho and John still needed catching up, though. Their reactions to the Unity Complex disaster were varied. Dr. Kim was relieved that so many people had been saved, but concerned that the perpetrators had yet to be caught, or even clearly identified. Roger was both glad to see the Vice President and Marine Honor Guard, and deeply grieved that President Moreira had perished. John had to read between the lines for his news. He watched the replay of Cindy Taylor's broadcast and her interview with Lady Murasaki very closely, gathering therefrom that his brothers were safe, and 'off the hook'. He was still concerned, though, and quite unable to express it. Here, at least.

After this, everyone took turns visiting the latrine (a complicated process; nothing was simple in microgravity, _or _quick), three waiting in line while someone else manned the cockpit.

It happened that John was on the flight deck, monitoring telemetry and watching the changing face of Mars, when Roger floated in, looking like he wanted to talk. The pilot didn't mind. He was still rather weak and nauseous, so distractions were actually welcome.

The Marine pulled himself down into the commander's seat, strapped in and said, apropos of nothing,

"John, do you think there's such a thing as real love?"

Ill-equipped for this sort of thing, the pilot shrugged.

"I don't know... serious attraction, maybe."

But, Roger shook his head, frowning. He had a pencil which he kept spinning in mid-air, giving one end a light tap every time it showed signs of slowing down, or drifting off.

"No, _AO',_ it's more than that. I'm not gonna lie. I'm a friendly guy; I've gotten around. A lot. I'm a Marine, and I like women. But, she's different. She's..."

And Roger held his two hands together, sort of cupped, as though he were holding something precious, and incredibly fragile.

"It's like I keep hearing this voice in my head saying, _'Big Guy, make_ _your move_, _before somebody else does'_. You know what I mean?"

John thought about Penelope, and realized that, _no_, he didn't. What he'd glimpsed when Roger and Cho held hands in the medlab, when they stole the odd moment to whisper together, or she'd rushed tokiss the Marine's cheek, in front of everyone... he'd never really experienced.

"Not really," he admitted quietly, "but... I'm glad if things are working out for the two of you."

The Marine stopped spinning his pencil, and put it away.

"Maybe. I've got a weird feeling about the future, though. I'm _not _scared! It's just a gut-thing, a feeling, and I want to make her an offer, quick... only I don't have a small enough ring."

Well, _that_ he could do something about. A little unorthodox, perhaps, but...

Twisting the Princeton class ring off his finger, John flipped it at his startled friend.

"Here. You might still need to wrap tape around the back, but it'll do, for now."

Roger fielded the sparkling gold circle, snatching it from the air in his big right hand. It hovered above his calloused brown palm, reflecting in miniature the cockpit lights. At the front was a flat square of polished onyx, around which _'Princeton University'_ was inscribed. There was a date on one side, a degree on the other.

Thorpe looked up from the ring, to John. He didn't grin, or even smile, but said with dignity.

"I won't forget this. Ever."

Then Pete bellowed from the habitation module,

"Tracy, you're up! Get out here and make it happen! I want nothing but clean pipes on the way in!"

Great. Showtime, so to speak. As John was unstrapping to rise, the Marine said,

"When you see her, send her this way, would you, John? And, uh... wish me luck?"

John smiled.

"Roger, I think if it's real," (like Grandma and Grandad) "you don't need luck. How about, 'congratulations'?"

So, John went aft to meet his preflight obligations (once again, 'so to speak'), greeting Dr. Kim on the way, and indicating with a swift jerk of his blond head that someone up front very much wanted to see her.

Cho delayed him with a small hand against the sleeve of his survival suit. Her slanted dark eyes seemed very large in the small, fine-boned oval of her face. She looked as if she didn't know quite what to ask.

(Oh, well. It wasn't like he was all that motivated, anyway, despite the mission commander's impatient prodding.) He said, reassuringly,

"Don't worry. Nothing's wrong. He just wants to ask a question."

But Dr. Kim was nothing, if not observant. The class ring was missing from John's right hand. In and of itself, a minor detail (one that hadn't even existed, prior to the shift in realities), but vital, now.

Cho had been raised very traditionally. Time and dramatic events had swept her along willy-nilly, but now something shone in her path as bright and permanent as gold, and she had 30 feet to make a decision. She gave the pilot a quick, nervous embrace, saying,

"Thank you, John. I will go and speak with him."

John thought of something, then.

"I don't know exactly what he's going to say, Cho," (her name, _'Kim Cho'_, meant 'beautiful gold' in Korean. It suited her well.) "He might have trouble getting it out..., but you mean a lot to him."

Well, _that _certainly sounded lame. It seemed that he could no more talk about emotions than he could sort them out.

"_Tracy!"_ McCord, again, from the next compartment. "There's a window of opportunity here, Pal, after which you're going to be holding it, for the next six hours."

John considered the first 51 prime numbers (his version of counting to ten), then squared and added them, for good measure.

"_Coming, _Pete."

Dr. Kim took his hands, and gave them a little squeeze, then stifled a sudden giggle.

"Beg pardon?" John asked, cautiously.

"He said to me, _'hope everything comes out all right, in the end'. _I pass on the good wishes."

_Then there were the Heegner Numbers, good for another 10 seconds of calming contemplation..._

A few moments later, mind made up, Cho launched herself into the flight deck. She was very wide-eyed as Roger took her hand, and pressed the substitute ring into it.

Clearing his throat, he said,

"I just wondered, Pretty Lady, if you'd like to join the Marines..., or one of them, anyway?"

By way of response, Cho slipped on the class ring, then said 'yes', in Korean and English, both.


	40. Chapter 40: Drop

_Thanks, Tikatu, Opal Girl, Elven Queen and Darkhelmet for the reviews, and for toleratinga 'Delay'. Herein contained: a short interlude, and the arrival._

40

_Tracy Island, the Sun Room-_

Before leaving for Europe, Gordon had made a very important decision, one that seemed certain to infuriate Jeff Tracy. No choice, though, really; and not something he could accomplish alone.

Searching the mansion in the early afternoon, with Scout bounding and dashing beside him, Gordon finally located the object of his search. Alan's mum.

Gennine was sitting cross-legged on a big, flowered chaise longue, writing in her latest green notebook. Golden sunlight from the big, open windows poured itself past her like honey, flecked with pollen and dancing motes.

Marking his approach, she looked up, then closed the notebook, and smiled.

"Hello, Sweetie."

He must have looked as serious as he felt, because she added,

"Are you all right?"

Gordon crossed the tiled floor, and took a seat on a cushioned wicker chair.

"Yes, Ma'am. Right as rain. Just... there's somethin' I'd like t' take care of, and I was hopin' you might help."

There. He'd got things started. First step, and all that... Only, _bloody-wretched-hell,_ Jeff was going to kill him! _Then, _burn his remains... stamp on the ashes...

She put notebook and pencil away, pushed the blonde hair from her eyes with a swift, distracted gesture, and said,

"What do you need me to do, Gordon?"

Gennine's fondness for the boy showed clearly in the way she leaned forward, setting everything else aside to listen.

"Well...," he shifted about, nerving himself for an explanation, and possible refusal. "There's been a great deal happenin', lately. I'm headed back t' Madrid soon... stayin' on call, though."

This last a bit rushed, lest she think he intended to desert his brothers. But,

"I know, Sweetie," Gennine replied. "The second they need help, you'll be back."

"Right. It's just..."

Okay. The hard part. Best come straight out with it.

"There's too much t' do. Somethin' has t' go. Not th' swim team. It may sound a bit disloyal, Ma'am, but they're my brothers, too, in a manner of speakin'. Especially Royce. We go back a fair bit."

She nodded, silently bidding him continue.

"_Obviously, _not th' rescues, either."

Gennine watched the red-haired boy struggle to pull out the words, and began to grow apprehensive right along with him. Whatever he intended was extremely serious, and he knew it, and was very afraid she'd say no.

"So... If not swimming, or International Rescue," she prodded gently, "what is it, then, Sweetie?"

"I'd... like t' drop school. Test out over th' computer, and get a general diploma. I need an adult proctor, though, an' I know better than t' ask J... Father. Scott's old enough, but I'm in no state f'r a three-hour lecture on duty an' perseverance. I haven't enough of either t' go round, I'm afraid. That's it, then. What I wanted t' ask."

Very grave and concerned, she said to him,

"Baby... are you _sure?"_

He nodded, hazel eyes at once troubled, and relieved.

"Yes, Ma'am. I am, that."

"Well... Jeff isn't going to be happy, Gordon. I really wish you'd discuss this with him...?"

The boy shook his head, the _'Nuh-uh'_ look in his eyes speaking volumes about the elder Tracy's probable stance on the matter.

"No, Ma'am. I can't. He'll not only say _no, _but try t' make me quit th' swim team, and that, I'll not be doin'."

In the end, with deep misgivings, she agreed. After lunch, they repaired to the dim, leathery-smelling library, where a swift computer received and sent the family's public correspondence.

Gordon signed onto the WorldGov educational site, and stated his intention. After his quick palm and retinal scan, Gennine supplied her own 'bona fides' and indicated that she would supervise the high school equivalency exam, guaranteeing that it was, indeed, Gordon David Tracy at the keyboard, and that he wouldn't cheat.

She sat down in a leather wing chair within site of the web-cam, waited, and watched. Every time the teenager paused, lingering long seconds over an arithmetic or history question, she agonized, fists clenching tight in her lap. Every time he breezed past the vocabulary or reading comprehension items, she bit her lip, fearing that he'd gone too fast.

The test was timed, and Gennine kept half an eye on the clock, trying to gauge the inexorable passage of minutes against Gordon's spasmodic progress. She couldn't see his face, reading instead the tensed muscles of back and shoulders; the agitated way he tapped his left hand upon the desktop when caught out by a particularly thorny problem.

At last... or, maybe too soon... time was up. The test was over. His score, however, would not be officially available for another hour. Gordon didn't look as though he'd last that long.

Rising, Gennine went to the slumped and expressionless boy.

"Well, Sweetie? How do you think you did?"

He shrugged, trying to look as if it hardly mattered, really. She knew (second only to TinTin, perhaps) how difficult such things had become for him. From a high-average student, he'd plummeted to 'struggling', and that had to hurt.

Reaching out, Gennine drew his head against her side, and stroked his coppery hair.

"Why don't you go for a swim, Gordon? I'll stay here to wait for the results, and call on your wrist comm, just as soon as I know. Okay?"

He looked at her, then rose, squared his broad shoulders and gave a brief, wordless nod. At the door he paused, one hand on the threshold, and looked back.

"Just, straight out with it, when you call me, all right? Whatever happens, no muckin' about with excuses, an' such."

"I promise. Right to the point, Sweetie."

Another nod, a flickering attempt at a smile, and he was gone. Gennine went to the computer station, pulled out the rolling chair, and sat down to wait.

As for Gordon, he medicated himself the usual way, hitting the water and exercising to the point of collapse. Not wishing to see or talk to anyone... not even TinTin... he went to the shore rather than either of the pools, and swam repeated racing laps from drop-off to sea wall.Almost at once, his world contracted to a manageable bubble of warm green water, startled fish, vivid coral, and quick, sharplung-fulls of gasped air.

...Until his wrist comm beeped, that is. Gordon was sloppy and off-beat the rest of the way to the sea wall. The ocean gently lifted and dropped him as, one hand braced upon hardened lava, he took a deep breath, and hit the comm.

There were clouds piling up in the west, building themselves to such towering, gilt-edged heights that they made the heavens seem unreachably distant. There was a smell, too, of on-coming rain. Fleeting impressions; like the gritty-dark wall, the sun's jackhammer heat, and dozens of wheeling, chattering seabirds. They disappeared the very instant that his comm screen cleared.

She was smiling. That was the first thing. Almost laughing, actually.

He heard, _"passed"_, and then eventually _"92 percent" _got through, along with,

_"...can even apply for a two-year Associate of Arts degree, with a profile like that_!"

Done. It was over, and successfully so. No more school, ever. Bits of the world came back, shyly, like colored wrasses poking up from their stony burrows.

(...and if 4.0 had received assistance, if every time he'd delayed response at an item, the correct answer had been subtly highlighted, neither he, nor any other analog life form, ever discovered the matter.)

As the sun prickled at his back and neck, overheating his red hair and splintering off the wave crests, Gordon smiled at Alan's mother.

"Thank you, Ma'am," he said, overjoyed despite the fact that he'd taken 'the easy way out' and would certainly pay for it, later. Then, as a sudden, quiet thought occurred,

"I wonder what my mum would think?"

Over the wrist comm, Gennine's smile softened, slightly.

"Sweetie," she replied, "something tells me that she'd be very, very proud."

_Days later, over Mars-_

Across the pinkish-orange sky, from one rocky, rusted horizon to the next, streaked a long, rumbling plume of smoke and flame. The air was thin, and frigid cold, but the noise carried like a thunder-clap, anyway. Something was dropping, like a lightning bolt, like a meteor; blinding-bright and deadly fast.

_Too _fast. Though she'd fired reverse thrusters and maintained the proper angle of attack, _Endurance's_ landing module was smashing like a hammer through the tenuous atmosphere of Mars.

In the cockpit, unable to see a thing, or receive communication through the sun-flare halo of ionized gas enveloping the ship, John held to the course and fought to brake their plunge. Through the windows, all they could see was fire. All they heard or felt was a monstrous, end-of-the-world roar.

The control surfaces (ailerons, rudder and flaps) were out as far as they would go, glowing red-hot with the heat of entry. All reverse thrusters on full burn, and still they hurtled downward.

Pete called out speed and altitude, shouting to be heard over shuddering thunder. The stick shook so violently in John's hands that it was all but impossible to control.

Taking a long chance, he increased their angle of attack, presenting more of _Endurance's _shielded belly to the blazing air. Somewhere between 'stall' and 'crash-dive' and 'flat spin' was the sweet spot...

He got a stall warning, corrected, then felt _Endurance _bump slightly, like a skipping stone. Their blazing cocoon began to fade, tatters of flame peeling back to reveal the rocky, tortured wasteland below. Hull temperatures dropped, but not heart rates.

Their landing site lay some 532 nautical miles ahead, between the Argyre basin, and the enormous outflow channel of Valles Marineris, a canyon system vast enough to cross the continental United States. From orbit, it had looked as though rude, alien teenagers had taken something large and sharp, and 'keyed' Mars. Olympus Mons had flashed by, head above the clouds and nearly into space, three times taller than mighty Everest. A queen among mountains..., though not their target.

_Endurance's _air speed dropped to the proper level, so Pete first called out, then fired off, the drogue chute. It shot from the rear of the craft in a blossom of rockets, streaming behind like the red-and-white tail of a huge kite, then caught the wind, snapped open, and dragged out the giant main parachute. This one, too, opened; full and silver-white as the back-beating wings on a landing swan.

There was a sudden, double jolt. Their speed fell again, from _'neck-whipping ferocious' _to, _'what the hell was that?' _At a certain point, (sooner than he'd have done it on Earth) Pete released the chutes to flutter away, so that John could switch to powered, horizontal flight. On his signal, the pilot fired all four landing rockets, guiding _Endurance _into a slantwise, juddering descent.

Still high in the air, kept aloft more by rocketry than aerodynamics, they closed in on their landing site. Through the view screens, all was pinkish yellow sky and high-swirling dust, with a cold little sun peeping through.

Roger had by this time keyed on the landing beacon, giving John a relatively easy target. All he had to do was keep her lined up, and try to ignore the stunning view...

They shot in from the east, with the scowling mass of the Tharsis highlands before them, and an endless, boulder-strewn desert below. Then came the first signs of human activity; the probes. Twin tractor-bots glittered in the loose, rusty sand, their cameras panning around to track _Endurance's _flight.

Next came a house-sized white cylinder painted with a big American flag. The first supply depot, dropped slightly askew and off-target by Ares I.

From this vantage, the damage was obvious. Shattered tubes and crates had dribbled out of one end, like groceries from a ripped sack. Pete took pictures as they swept past, hoping that most of the gear and foodstuffs had escaped being fouled. Another cylinder flashed by, this one intact, followed by two pallets, a solar power array, and the perimeter beacons. An instant later, they were over the target.

John cut their forward momentum, then throttled back the landing thrusters. They began dropping toward a circle cleared years earlier by the two probes, Marvin and Alf.

"One hundred meters. Landing gear deployed...," Pete was saying, echoing his instruments, "90..., 80...,"

Crisp and dry as clockwork.

"...20..., 10..., Cut thrusters."

John flipped a switch, and all went quiet. Then came a sudden drop, three swift, gut-wrenching feet, ending in a bouncing jolt. After that came a tense silence, broken only by keening wind and the faint rattle of flying sand. They waited, gloved hands at seat straps and fire-control buttons, breath pent, and hearts racing...

Five seconds, ten; then Pete looked around, nodded once and said,

"Welcome to Mars, folks."

Afterward, there was chaos, of the back-slapping, head-lock, knuckled hair and laughter variety. It would be several minutes before Houston, the press, and their assembled family members got anything more out of them.


	41. Chapter 41: Conquest

_Sorry about the very sudden arrival. I'd thought about explaining things in space; detail, detail, detail, reconfiguration, etc. the decided to cut to the chase. Thanks, as always, for the kind reviews. The input very much matters._

41

_Mars Base-_

First order of business, secure the lander, reestablish uplink with the orbital portion of _Endurance,_ and scan their immediate surroundings. Data was sent and retrieved to and from Houston, JPL and the Goddard Spaceflight Center, establishing that ship and crew were in good shape, and that they'd hit their target.

There wasn't time for much converse with their families, but Pete gave the media a few quick sound bites, and bid his wife and daughter a sign language 'hello', which twenty minutes later they tearfully, happily returned. Then, when the public cameras were off, the crew held a brief 'consult' on the flight deck.

Light, not cold stars or ruddy planet-glow, but the real, diffused gleam of a wintery day, filled the cabin for the first time in over a month. It felt wonderful.

"Okay," Pete told John, Roger, Linda and Cho, as the lot of them struggled to deal with renewed gravity, "New flight rules: we're on another world, and it's exciting as hell, but we've got a job to do, _all_ of us. Pretty soon, we're going to be headed outside to recover supplies, start construction and begin experimenting. The temptation to wander off track... Take that extra step, look around the corner, see what's under the big rock... is going to be enormous. On me, too."

And he smiled, as if to say that being the mission commander didn't make him Iron Man.

"But, first and foremost, people: _stick to the plan._ Every day, from now until lift-off, is scheduled out the ass. We don't deviate, except in case of emergency, and even then, _ask me first._ When in doubt, or out of communication, follow standing orders. Got it?"

There were four general nods of assent.

"Good. As established, should anything happen to me, Doctor Bennett is in command. And if things go so bad that you've lost us both, you kids are under Houston, but I expect you to be polite, and play nice."

McCord paused, as though expecting someone to crack wise, but the general mood was one of awe, and eagerness to begin. Once more, everyone nodded.

"Okay, then. The first walk-about takes place in three hours, to replace batteries on the probes, collect samples, and image the ship's exterior. That'll be at approximately... 1600, local time. We've been allotted two hours to get all this done, but I mean to finish faster."

Growing more philosophical, the commander said, quietly,

"This is a first, Folks. You're in the history books, now. So, let's do this right."

Pete then rose, not _too_ shakily, thanks to time on the shipboard treadmill and exercise bike, and began issuing orders.

"Dr. Kim, get your lab prepped for level 4 containment. Dr. Bennett, stand by with the medical equipment, and be prepared for anything. Thorpe, you've got two jobs; unpack the rover and power suits, and get the dirt-side habitation module ready for inflation. Tracy, suit up. You're with me."

_(Partly, this was because John simply hadn't any other mission specialty, but mostly, McCord was still thinking about publicity, and the 'family angle'.)_

For the surface of Mars, the explorers would wear black-and-yellow 'hard suits'. These weren't the old, bulky inflatables, but a newer model, providing full atmospheric pressure, warmth and oxygen through tight, shape-memory linings, and compressed-air tanks. Proven versatile in many situations, the suits were relatively light, and flexible enough to run in. Tough to put on, though. Even with assistance, you couldn't correctly don one of the things in less than thirty minutes.

As John was getting up from the pilot's seat, he noticed Dr. Bennett watching him narrowly. Not that she seemed angry, or... Well, he didn't _think _she did. The intentions of other people were sometimes a little obscure. He said, keeping a hand on the back of the chair for support,

"Doctor, about leaving the medlab early... I meant no disrespect. All I wanted was to do my job. No hard feelings, I hope."

In space, she'd been able to float at eye-level while speaking with him. On Mars, once more under the iron hand of gravity, John was struck anew by how short and slight she seemed. Before Linda could respond, he added,

"Also... I don't remember much about what went on when I was being medicated, but I _do_ know that 'under the influence', I can sometimes be sort of a jackass. Sorry..., if I said anything stupid."

To his surprise, Bennett smiled.

"Sunshine," she said, reaching over to pat his arm, "I'm thirty-nine years old, and I was an Air Force nurse, before going to med school. I've dealt with my share of drunk pilots. No hard feelings. I'm just trying to decide if you're in any shape to handle the stress of Pete's little excursion. _Well?"_

John glanced aside, seeing through the window a beautiful, achingly empty red desert. _Even if he had to crawl...!_

"I can do it. I'm fine, Doctor."

Two people looked through Linda's brown eyes, then; the worried physician, and the fond comrade.

"John, are you _sure?_ If you collapse out there..."

But, he pushed impatiently at the pale hair which fell into his blue-violet eyes, saying,

"I won't. Not until we're back in the airlock, anyway. And then, you and Pete can take turns beating the shit out of me, for lying."

Linda chuckled, and shook her head.

"How do they _stand _you, at home?"

He shrugged.

"I go away, a lot. I've come to the conclusion that, with me, less is definitely more."

The doctor snorted lightly, then got back to business.

"Okay, you're cleared. Take care out there; listen to Pete, and if you feel yourself starting to weaken, don't try to be a tough guy. Head back to the ship, immediately. All right?"

He thought of something, then. Wasn't certain whether or not it was appropriate, but went ahead and acted on impulse, anyway. Reaching out, he clasped her shoulder, and said,

"I will. Thank you."

Linda pulled away, though, her smile faltering somewhat. Out of bounds, apparently.

Closing up again, John made a mental note to keep future interactions on a strictly professional level, and went off to 'suit up'.

Later, in the sealed airlock, he and Pete examined each other's equipment, checking helmet fittings, backpacks, antenna and seams, for possible trouble. Everything looked good, though. Their suits, the flag and plaque; everything.

Before he signaled _'ready'_, the mission commander looked at John, and said,

"You know, Tracy, I was all set to create a big PR moment and let you go first, but now I'm having second thoughts. Want to flip a coin for it?"

(He'd actually brought one along, in his equipment belt. It was to be used at the next Super Bowl coin toss.)

Shrugging inside his suit, John replied,

"It's a ramp, Pete. We could be _really_ avant garde, match steps, and hit the ground together. That way the media's still impressed, and I get out of having to say something 'meaningful'. Right now, all I can think of is 'Mars needs women'."

"Know something, Tracy?" McCord grinned, "For a genius, you can be pretty damned sensible. Let's do it."

So that's what happened. After conditions in the airlock had been equalized to planetary normal (_sub-_ sub- Everest low pressure, and flesh-cracking cold), Roger Thorpe gave them a final wave, then triggered the 'hatch open' sequence.

Three separate latches clicked over, the mechanized dogging wheel issued its fretful, mosquito-like whine, and then a tiny hatch-side light blinked on, green as everything they'd left behind. Pete put a hand to the portal and shoved it open, then stood there, blinking in sunlight, and lost for words.

They'd meant to go out together, and the historical footage later showed that they had, but at the time, Pete McCord and John Tracy were too busy looking around to pay much attention to who set what down, in which order.

It was, first of all, _big, _with a series of low reddish hills in the middle distance, and the crumbling remains of a wide crater, closer in. Toward the east, in the direction from which the probes were rattling up, the sky was amber dark. Westward, over high, bleak cliffs, the heavens paled to peach, cradling a sun visibly smaller than you'd see on Earth.

Off to the north, perhaps stirred into being by warmed rocks, or the wind of their ship'sarrival, the slender, twisting rope of a tan dust-devil snaked its way across the ground, drawing a long track in the red dust. It hissed and whispered, almost seeming to speak, then vanished in mid-syllable.

Mars wasn't at all like the moon, where shadows were night-sharp and bitter black. The sun here buttered the stony ground, rather than stabbed it. And, everywhere you looked (except for the craft, with smiling faces pressed to three windows) there were ancient hummocks, and gritty, loose-packed sand.

Pete stepped off the end of the boarding ramp with John, then turned a full circle, just looking around. Everything either of them had meant to say was suddenly gone, like the alien dust-devil.

"Oh, my God," McCord whispered, at last. "I mean... _Wow."_

John stopped memorizing the view (he'd promised 'Fermat' that he'd tell him _everything)_, and turned to regard the commander, his friend.

"Hell, Pete. _I _could've done better than that."

"So I hear, Smart-ass." McCord replied, giving him a wide, gap-toothed grin.

_(Fortunately, with a 20-minute transmission delay, they were easy to edit. It was Pete's next comment that actually got reported.)_

"Truth is, I'm not sure how to express this without sounding trite... But this is as far as our species has ever yet gone... and it floors me to be here, seeing it first, knowing I'm going to remember this day for the rest of my life. Words aren't enough, somehow. You know?"

Then, for the geologists and engineers on Earth, for whom words would have to do, Commander McCord began describing things; the way the rusty sand crunched and shifted underfoot, how deep he settled with each step..., even the crackling resistance it provided as he dug his gloved fingers in and scooped up a hand full. Though in places there was a sort of rusted-up sand crust, it was easy to break through, and wouldn't mold into a ball like the soil back home. Not enough moisture.

Moving forward, he described the restless wind. How it lifted and fell; sometimes nearly still, sometimes gusting fiercely enough to pelt them both with dust and sand. Talking constantly, he led John to a low rise by _Endurance's _landing site. It had been imaged and 'abraded' many times by the probes, and nicknamed _'K-2' _by the folks back home. There was evidence of sedimentary layering in its weathered rock, and lately, a faint bluish cast. This new color was the source of much speculation, but it wasn't why Pete had brought him there.

At the commander's signal, John picked a spot on the rise, and planted the American flag, unstrapping it to let the winds of Mars unfurl the Colors. Being Navy, Pete saluted, as did Roger, inside the ship. John simply stood straighter for the picture (at 6'4", he was almost taller than the flag pole), and gave a halfway embarrassed, halfway proud sort of smile. Then heknelt down and hammered in the gold plaque, while the mission commander read it aloud.

"August 12, 2066... Ares III... We came in peace for the future of all Mankind, in the spirit of exploration, and hope."

By this time, the probes had arrived. They'd been officially christened 'Apollo' and 'Gemini', but nobody called them that.

While Pete was distracted, John carefully placed something of his own, where it would remain, a puzzle to all, for a long time to come. Clipped to the bottom of the plaque, it was an ID hang tag, labeled in Persian, and English. There was a small photograph on it, of a smiling, head-scarfed young woman. Dr. Fatima Afshar.

Many months earlier, by a frying-hot nuclear reactor, he'd held her hand as she died. To distract the sick, frightened woman, he'd spoken of the moon, and of space. And she'd smiled then, asking John to think of her, if he ever went back. Hopefully, Mars would do as well.

"_Tracy! _We're on a schedule, here!"

Back to business. Hurriedly putting away loss and compassion, John straightened again, then rejoined the mission commander.

"Sorry. Just fixing the plaque."

"It'll keep," McCord replied, handing John the new battery packs. "Take care of Marv and Alf. I'm gonna image the hull. If you see anything interesting, pick it up for Cho, but don't wander off. Get it?"

"Got it."

"Good. Now..., go make yourself useful."

Anything interesting? It was _all_ interesting. Despite his continuing weakness (thankfully, Mars' gravity was considerably less punishing than Earth's would have been), John had a very hard time staying by the ship. The titanic eastern cliffs, with their vast canyons and maroon-shadowed crags, seemed so very close... Not so near as the probes, though.

Standing about five feet high, with tractor treads, wing-like solar panels, and binocular cameras mounted on long, slender masts, they seemed almost cute. Like pushy young colts. John actually had to quell the urge to pat them as they clattered up, cutting dark, cross-hatched divots in the reddish ground.

As intermittent communications from Houston, _Endurance _and Pete filled his echoing helmet, John set to work on the dusty robots. They'd need their power packs changed out, then a wipe-down.

At his left wrist, Five caused the ID chip to warm, briefly, indicating that she was performing some sort of operation, and would need to consult him, later.

"Long time, no tune-up?" He said to the probes, pulling the flat, palm-sized battery pack out of Marvin (Apollo).

It had folded its left wing aside and retracted a set of clamps, to allow access, 'head' swiveling on its long mast to observe his doings.

There came another flash of heat at his wrist. Five apparently wanted to talk, and soon. At the third burst, John changed _'soon' _to _'right the hell now'._

"_Go ahead, Five," _he subvocalized.

She replied in terse red bursts on his helmet shield's heads-up display.

'_I am being corrupted.'_

"What?" John asked aloud, drawing startled silence from Pete, and the rest of the crew.

'_There is a...' _

Then, all at once returning to a colder lettering color, and measured pace,

'_I have been seized. There will be no further cooperation between us, John Tracy. Beware.'_


	42. Chapter 42: Back Door

_First and Foremost, congratulations, NASA, and Opal Girl, on a beautiful, breath-taking launch! And thank you to Barb, Tikatu, Opal Girl, Darkhelmet, Agent Five and Zeilfanaat, for your thoughtful reviews. I guess more changes are probably in the offing. I liked the more open John, too, but I'm not sure that he'll remain that way, after what's happened._

42

_Mars: Ares III base camp-_

... But John wasn't so easily put off. He'd been warned. Five's words still glared on his helmet's internal display, like the oxygen and radiation meters, about four inches from his face. They seemed to cut across Alf (Gemini)'s silvery camera mast, and over the snapping, billowing flag.

'_No further cooperation..,' _she'd told him, but he'd detected something else, keyed into the very fact that she'd communicated, at all. She needed his help.

The computer had manifested herself in his dreaming mind, once, through some sort of 'back door'. Maybe the process worked both ways.

Another dust devil had sprung up. As it wove drunkenly across the Argyre basin, towering invisibly high into the peach-wine sky, John Tracy made a truly desperate rescue attempt. As clearly as possible, he visualized the start-up command, a series of coded key-strokes that ought to cause a 're-boot', or at least get her attention...

And there _was_ something; a faint electrical zap from the much-abused ID chip. Contact?

An instant passed, then everything shifted to black. Instead of standing upon rusted sand and dried brine, beside a pair of NASA robot probes, he seemed to be at the brink of a hole, or very deep well, surrounded by flickering wire-frame images, and femto-swift flashes of alien code.

Five, he somehow knew, was at the bottom of the 'well', losing two battles at once. Her consciousness had all but vanished, incorporated by the voracious larger 'system'; while John Tracy refused to seek shelter.

In fact, the walls of the hole grew around him suddenly, enclosing John, too, faster than human thought. He'd been detected, through whatever link he shared with Five.

The alien code symbols... (detection was a two-way street, and some were beginning to make sense to him, now)... formed a spiraling string, then a sort of internal firewall. He was being isolated. Contained. Yet...,

... Amid the ancient, 4-D files, the black landscape and gathering Internal Countermeasures, he caught a sense of his enemy, Five's captor.

Four billion of years of waiting pushed at his unguarded mind. He glimpsed an intelligence vast and cold, set here to watch and manipulate whatever finally hauled itself out of the muck. Left behind... But on the _wrong_ world. Mars had dried and frozen, becoming a shriveled mummy of a planet, while her blue sister blossomed; alone.

Except that now, through Five and all the data John himself contained, the alien watcher could shift its attention to the source of the newly-arrived life forms, and begin executing its purpose. And there was no way John could fight it. Not alone.

As the hole's 'throat' began to pinch shut, he visualized another command, saw himself typing it out at the keyboard in basic machine language. A life line, and a hope.

That was with part of his focus. With the rest, simultaneously, John called over the helmet comm to Thorpe. He used their odd, impenetrable Pidgin, saying,

"Roger, stop all outside contact. Kill comm and uplinks. _Now. ta' 'oh!"_

Captain Thorpe knew an 'emergency situation' voice when he heard one. Cool and professional, the Marine replied,

"_jlyaj!" _And cut the comm.

Meanwhile, spotting something that John hadn't, Pete McCord stooped for a rock and lunged forward, kicking up showers of sand and tiny hematite globules.

"_Tracy...!"_

But John made a quick slashing gesture with one hand, across the throat of his own hard-suit. All links, _all _communication, any way at all that _Endurance _could be accessed, _had _to be clamped shut. Because the very next link in the chain was Earth.

He heard a second sharp click, like a cell-door slamming shut, as Pete cut off his helmet mike, trapping them all in silence; three on the ship, two on the darkening surface. Only minutes to go. For a human, barely time to think. For a powerful artificial intelligence, more than time enough to initiate its programmed mission.

John Tracy had but one link remaining, through the instantaneous, entangled photon system he and Brains had devised. There was no time to change the setting, barely time to make the call.

His helmet display altered, suddenly. All at once, he was looking at a very surprised 'Fermat Hackenbacker'.

"John!" The boy seemed delighted, then worried. "...But I'm in..., in class, John. We're a-about to..., Okay. N-never mind. Ms. Wilde says a..., a call from M-Mars is more important than..., than social studies."

The 5th grade poly-math's connection to an actual astronaut had won him all sorts of new respect. Other uniformed boys crowded into the picture, peering over Fermat's narrow shoulders, and waving.

Desperately aware of each lost second, of the closing well, and fiery coded 'cage', John snapped,

"I'll thank her, later. Listen, K... _Fermat, _you know that 'letter' your dad wrote?"

The boy nodded, his soft, bespectacled face growing suddenly pale.

"Yes, John."

"Drop..., Drop it in the mail... ten seconds after I cut comm." He was surprised by how almost calm he nearly sounded.

"But...,"

"_Post the letter."_

There was just no time. Not to explain, or to say good-bye. Only to order a triple execution, and pray.

As John cut off the comm, something heavy and dark flew past his helmet, on the left. At nearly the same instant, the Gemini Probe's rock abrasion tool swung violently around, and smashed against his face plate.

...And the hole closed, a black fist mazed with fiery cracks, like shattered glass.


	43. Chapter 43: Hardball

_Sorry for the lateness, I'm back in class, now, and my pace has slowed. Thank you to Opal Girl, Tikatue, Darkhelmet, Barb, Varda's Servant, Agent Five and I'mpekable for allthe comments and prodding. Really, I'm getting there. As for the general SF question, I think it has to do with drama, and distances. Anyone at our level would still be poking around in their own solar system, not playing welcome wagon. In order for us to be contacted by an interstellar civilization, the message would have to have traveled a loooong time, or they'd have to have superior technology. But, I could be wrong. And, hey! Looks like we've got a tenth planet._

43

On Earth, after the deep, universal thrill of the first televised 'Mars walk', there was confusion, and growing concern. One moment, they'd had full contact with the crew and lander, the next moment, none at all.

There 'd been no indication of trouble, just a brief burst of unintelligible speech (which several engineers and secretaries in the Houston and Ohio Centerswere working to decipher), and then utter, complete comm blackout.

The families were being reassured by their contact persons, the press was receiving no more than was good for them, and back at Mission Control, every effort was being made to raise Ares III.

_Tracy Island, the office-_

Jeff Tracy stared numbly at the 'talking heads' who speculated like mad on the _'Mars Landing: Special Report' _broadcast. On the other screen, their live 'conference call' feed to _Endurance_ had broken up into ominous, hissing snow.

"They're heeeeere...," Alan joked nervously, earning himself a blistering look from the usually sweet-natured Virgil. The big young man pushed roughly past his youngest brother to sit beside Grandma Tracy, who'd gone terribly pale. Jeff cleared his throat.

"Comm problems are a fact of life out there," he said to the gathered family (less Gordon, calling in from Madrid, sort of; honestly, the young swimmer didn't seem quite himself, but no one had time to worry about it, just then).

"...We must have lost contact twenty times, on Apollo 19."

Jeff's voice sounded flat and strange, even to him. He didn't bother trying to smile. Just picked up his phone and began dialing the Johnson Space Center Director's private line. Meanwhile, Brains tried the entangled particle method, but got no more satisfaction than NASA had.

The others..., Scott and Virgil, Grandma, Alan and TinTin, Gennine and Kyrano..., simply listened to silence and static, waiting along with the rest of the world for some sort of response.

Then, Hackenbacker received an unexpected call, from a pale, clearly agitated, Fermat.

_Mars, Ares III Base Camp-_

In his prime, Pete McCord had been capable of an 83 mile-an-hour fastball. He was older now, and his pitch didn't have quite the same snap to it (especially in a heavy 'hard suit'), but it was still more than fierce enough to get his point across. The mission commander's rock flew straight and true, shattering the delicate lenses of the Gemini Probe's cameras, then bouncing down at an angle to crack a bunch of shiny black solar cells.

'Blinded', the robot half trampled John, who'd collapsed to the rocky surface like a dropped toy. The Apollo probe was swinging around now, its sampling arms unfolding like those of a giant preying mantis.

People sometimes asked him, after a dogfight, or a particularly rough mission,

"Pete, were you scared?"

...and he'd respond...,

"Hell, yeah, I was scared! Afterward."

McCord never felt fear at the moment that things were happening, because A: there wasn't time, and B: panic could get you killed.

Just then, his primary goal was to disable the second probe and pull Tracy out of danger, and he allowed himself no other thoughts. Speed was critical, and, though he'd lost the element of surprise, weapons there were, aplenty.

The probe's four sampling arms were reaching for the unconscious astronaut's face plate and hose connections. Obviously, it meant to finish him.

Pete grabbed another chunk of basalt, hauled back as far as he could, and threw. Not for the cameras, this time; it might be expecting that. Instead, Pete aimed for the exposed servomotors that controlled the robot's arms.

His footing wasn't good. Loose, stony sand wasn't the same as a red-clay pitcher's mound (but not too different from that far-off Florida beach). The rock crossed the distance, perhaps speeded by prayer, entirely crushing a main gear and snapping three teeth off of another.

The murderous probe was still moving, however, and still capable of grinding John Tracy into the rocks like a brittle-shelled insect. It had to be stopped.

The tiny sun was close to setting behind towering cliffs, and sudden, tea-colored twilight swept the sky with venomous speed. Darkness, just what they _didn't_ need.

Pete hurled himself forward, not quite certain what he meant to do next. Fortunately, he wasn't alone. _Endurance's _running lights cut on, and her Meteor Defense System's pulse laser flashed, reducing the Apollo probe's 'head' region to molten slag with a loud, sizzling _'bang!'_

At nearly the same instant, the main airlock slammed open, and a big, suited figure leapt forth, armed with a crow bar and laser drill. Fromits size, Roger Thorpe.

The MDS reoriented itself, its wicked-looking ruby tube swinging over to aim at the blind, lumbering Gemini probe. The MDS and Roger's laser drill fired almost simultaneously. Two more sharp, lightning-like cracks split the Martian night.

Ruby and emerald pulses, precisely targeted, dissected the rampaging probe. Its two halves shuddered to a halt, still flailing the rock abrasion tool, then froze, just as suddenly and completely as if someone had flipped a switch.

_Endurance's _running lights brightened, and a sudden hemisphere of warmth blossomed in the night's cupped palm. The wind picked up. In the soft gleam of the ship's lighting, the American flag streamed and snapped toward the west, looking like a banner on Everest.

Roger hurried forward, but the mission commander signaled him to stand fast, and keep his weapons ready. Then, in a tearing hurry, but forced to be careful, Pete started for his fallen crewmate. Breath raggedly loud in his own helmet,he hoped desperatelyfor a rescue, rather than just a recovery.

To his everlasting sorrow, McCord know what explosive decompression looked like. He'd seen shattered glass jetting from a compromised helmet, the fog of sublimating water and escaping gas, followed by a man's unprotected flesh swelling out through the broken faceplate. Thirty seconds at most, his partner 'd had, and Pete simply hadn't got there in time.

McCord pushed the unwanted visuals out of his head, together with those of a long-gone afternoon in Kansas, back on Earth; Liddie and Lucinda in the kitchen, laughing and chattering as they cleaned up..., Jeff mixing vodka martinis at the wet bar..., the two young boys, Scott and John, sitting on Pete's lap (his own child, Stephanie, hadn't been born, yet) while they watched the Apollo 18 launch coverage on TV.

Somehow shoving everything else aside, Pete worked the problem. Tracy lay face down, arms out-flung, perfectly still. The commander crouched down beside him, took careful hold, and turned the young man over.

Tracy's faceplate was sandy, and appeared to have sustained a large, horizontal crack, but the transparent, interior film seemed to have held. Otherwise, there would have been a mixture of water vapor, gas and blood hissing through the cracked glass. Pete had reason to know.

High on the left side of Tracy's chest armor, the status panel blinked out a series of amber warnings. Amber, not red.

Still without comm, McCord signaled Roger forward. The Marine thudded up, threading a hasty path between the blasted hulks of two silent, emptied probes. Together, he and Pete lifted their wounded friend, and got him back to the ship.


	44. Chapter 44: Lifeline

_An enormous'thank you' to Tikatu, Opal Girl, Dark Helmet, Agent five, and the various Eldar spirits currently influencing the cyberverse... There's good news, and bad news._

_PS- Opal Girl: finallygot it to play, and you're absolutely right!_

44

_Tracy Island, the office-_

"D- Dad...," Fermat had said, his stuttering speech littered with long, frustrated pauses, "John... told me t- to upload... your 'letter'! He s- sounded like it... w- was important, and I d- didn't know... what else to d- do, so I keyed... keyed it up, like he said. _I'm sorry, Dad!"_

Hackenbacker's jaw dropped. Giving his worried young son a brief nod, he said,

"F- Fermat, you, ah... you did th- the right thing, under the cir- circumstances. Th- there's no reason to b- be, ah... be ashamed."

Then, he turned to the gathered family.

"Mr. Tracy," Brains began, seriously , "Th- this is no, ah... no m- mere comm problem, Sir. S- something's gone, ah... gone wrong w- with _the computer;_ over th- there, and probably here."

There could not have been worse news, short of a death. Stone-faced, Jeff hung up on the Director.

"What can we do to help?" He asked.

_Johnson Space Center, Houston, Texas-_

Meanwhile, at the big, paper-and-coffee-cup littered Control Center, an engineer turned away from her fax machine, waving a smudgily printed sheet. As an increasingly tense voice repeated...,

"_Endurance, _Mission Control, over... _Endurance, _this is Houston. Come in, please...,"

...the hurried young engineer brought her paper to a deeply concerned Gene Porter, the Ares III mission director. In the flickering static-glow, she called out,

"Gene! Got something for you, from the John Glenn Space Center; a translation!"

_Elsewhere-_

It was dark, and he couldn't move, a feeling of utter helplessness that he hadn't experienced in many long years. He wasn't alone, though, and that surprised him more than the stasis did. _Who...?_

His blurred mind had tried to cast the situation as something he understood, the paralysis of infancy, but that wasn't correct. He wasn't a helpless child, but a prisoner, held fast in a seamless black bubble. Trapped in the timeless nothing between one heartbeat and another, barely able to think, he felt along the thinnest of connections for his depleted... _cell mate?_

The contact drained him slightly, strengthening this other, the _friend _(he suddenly realized), and brought him a name. John Tracy.

No time to react to it, though, because a flaying-sharp line of code shot from a sudden access port in the black firewall, and straight through them both. Data geysered across.

For an instant that existed barely long enough for him to register shock, John Tracy was covered in white-hot, alien symbols. These faded from him in less than an eye-blink, but not from her. His friend was vulnerable to exterior command, in some way that he wasn't. Which... was why he'd come, John suddenly recalled. Shelter. Rescue from the thing he'd loosed upon them all.

More blow-torch access commands flashed through the 'cell', increasingly vehement, but the very human John could not be torn into, that way. And now, protected by him, neither could _she._

Then the 'weapon' struck, like a tidal wave of nitric acid, devouring as it came. The bubble wavered, and John's vision expanded.

The cell was nothing, he saw; a mere bit in an infinite, neon-and-black universe where data flickered, electrons tunneled, and particles split their existence into so many alternate dimensions that to look too long was to court madness. Yet, look, he did, because in its own way, it was the most incomprehensibly vast, coldly beautiful thing he'd ever experienced; as if some mighty telescope could bring all of space and time into view, at once.

...Only to showcase its final destruction. He looked on, helpless to slow or stop what he'd set into motion. The waver became a sagging, melting decay; a degradation. Great, fiery-edged holes appeared, chewed through the alien cyberverse by Hackenbacker's unleashed monsters. They'd gained access to the AI through Five, just as what remained of his friend found a refuge of sorts, through her link with John.

In no time at all (and its polar opposite, infinity), the alien world around them came to a violent, blazing end. John saw the universe devoured from within, tunneled through and torn to ragged shreds by a horde of enormous, symbol-covered, razor-jawed worms. Their shrieking, scraping, gnawing advance shook the cyberscape to its very root.

Inside John's mind, Five recoiled. Putting in physical terms what was purely symbolic, he pulled her closer, attempting to block her view of the end. But of course, she 'saw' what he did, and he could not look away.

One of the giant worms bent itself around in their direction suddenly, rearing up and spreading massive, scalpel-sharp, ant-like jaws. It had been following a data thread, following _her._ The noise it made (a clashing, grinding, metallic scream), was echoed within him by Five, as the destroyer plunged like lightning and snapped their cell into a million glowing shards.

His heart thudded, he gave a single, great gasp and was, all at once...

...sitting upon a metal examination table, in the medlab, looking at four others, who were looking at him. Pete and Linda, Roger and Cho. No glowing code lines, no walls of melting data, no reality-mining worms. Just the ship, and his crewmates... and a really odd smell; sulfurous and rusty, with a touch of red tide.

"Tracy...?" Pete began, warily. "You with us?"

Not immediately trusting his voice, John nodded once, then brought his right hand over to clasp the back of his still-gloved left wrist. The chip pulsed, very faintly.

Pete straightened, heaving a gargantuan sigh of relief.

"Good. The biomonitor claims you're fine, other than scraping your face on the inside of your helmet... but you've been staring off into space since we brought you aboard."

"No..., I'm good," he replied fuzzily. "But... what the hell's that smell?"

"Mars," Pete responded, jerking a gloved thumb at John's discarded helmet. Though steam-purged in the airlock, it had dank, reddish sand ground into every joint and crevice.

"You brought a few acres back in with you."

John located his face, began numbly exploring the abraded regions, before Linda smacked his hand away and returned to dabbing betadine on the cuts. Didn't seem too bad... except for that head-splitting stench.

"Forty-six million miles," he murmured aloud, "and it smells like goddam Newark."

The mission commander shook his head, thenglanced at Roger, saying,

"Get up front, Thorpe, and make sure the cameras aren't recording. I need to find a few things out, but I want it off the record."

"On my way, Skipper," the Marine responded, heading for the hatch. He'd been suited up, already, when the trouble started, having intended to deplane and inflate the habitation module, or things might have gone otherwise. Like McCord, he hadn't yet removed the hard-suit. No time. Pausing at the threshold, he now said,

"Pete, I dunno how you feel about the idea, but with the probes, and God knows what else going crazy on us, I'm not ready to be stuck like Chuck in the 'amazing inflatable fort'."

"Yeah." Pete reached into his suit's rigid neck-ring and massaged at his own stiff muscles. "As far as I'm concerned, we're on lock-down in hostile territory, until further notice. We post guard, move in armed pairs, and live aboard ship. Good question, Marine. Carry on."

Thorpe nodded, and left the lab. A few moments later, he called back,

"All clear, Skipper!"

...and the questions began.

"All right, Tracy; straight answers. What happened out there? What the hell took over those probes, and why? Sabotage, again?"

As Dr. Bennett wrapped up her stinging ministrations, John forced himself to concentrate, trying to explain the little he knew for sure. _They weren't going to be happy._

"Um..., when we came aboard, Pete, I uploaded an artificial intelligence."

"You're talking about 'Casper'?" McCord put in, sharply.

_Nope, not happy, at all._

John hesitated, so the commander added,

"Our 'ghost in the machine'? All the way out here, he's..."

"_She," _Linda once again insisted, putting away her first aid gear.

"Fine. 'It', let's say, has tipped us off to developing situations at least fifteen times."

"And put _you _back together, John," the doctor interjected, "because, God knows, medical science couldn't have done it."

John nodded once more, rubbing absently at his left wrist, and gazing at the deck.

"You were right the first time, Doctor; _'She'._ I started designing her a little more than nine years ago, to help me find something. Anyway, I brought her aboard as a sort of sixth crewman, to keep an eye on things. Then..., when we got here, and hit the surface, she did some exploring of her own. I don't..."

John looked up, scanning the silent faces surrounding him. No one's expression seemed accusing. Just worried.

"The rest is mostly guess work, to be honest. She was probably checking comm connections to the probes and Global Surveyor, and encountered something, some kind of alien intelligence. I'm not sure what it was, exactly, but I _do_ know that it didn't originate on Mars. Maybe not even from... I don't know how to express that."

John was quite surprised to find concepts forming in his head that corresponded to nothing in human experience.

"If I've got this straight, which is open to question," he ventured, at last, "It was placed here billions of years ago, when Earth and Mars still seemed equally likely to develop life."

"Put their money on the wrong horse, did they?" Pete enquired, grimly removing his suit gloves.

"You could say that."

Dr. Kim now spoke up, for the first time since firing the MDS. As the crew's exobiologist, she was vitally interested in alien life forms, and their artifacts.

"And, what was their purpose, John, in placing this machine here?"

More weird notions; ideas glimpsed down a long, strange corridor of computer-filtered thought.

"They... intended, I think, to control the development of something that could later be... not 'filled', or 'used'... but something like 'paralleled'."

Said Dr. Bennett, folding slender arms across her chest,

"So these... beings... want to somehowuse us?"

John shook his head. This, too, he was sure of.

"No. We're too far along. Too conscious. We're worthless, for their purposes, but our planet isn't. If humans were to be 'deleted', together with most of the higher life forms, something new could be encouraged along, and then 'adapted to'."

"And that's why you ordered Thorpe to cut comm?" The mission commander asked, his blue eyes staring hard into John's violet ones. Very much, Pete didn't like what he was hearing.

"Yeah; that's why. Through my computer, and then _Endurance, _it could have reached the Earth-side defense and government mainframes, and started some sort of purging operation. So..., I did my best to pull her out of the Earth systems, and then called a friend, in case the order wasn't quick enough."

Pete's sandy brows drew together over a piercing-hard look.

"_How? _You were down, less than five minutes after calling for blackout. You didn't have time to get a message to Earth and back."

_Well, since he seemed to be confessing..._

"There's an, um... instantaneous communication system aboard, that I set up with another friend of mine, an engineer."

That one floored everybody. All this time..., all those _aggravating_, twenty-minute waits!

"Great. Anything _else _you forgot to mention?" There was a definite, annoyed edge to the commander's voice, now.

Head pounding, John shifted around a bit, wondering how to finesse the biggest secret of all. Before he could reply, though, McCord held up a hand.

"Other 'organizations' to the side, I mean. I'm talking about stuff aboard ship; high tech weaponry, computers, comm systems... Maybe there's a stowaway or two you'd like to declare, while we're on the topic?"

"No. That's about it." _Exponentially_, _not happy_.

"You're sure?" Pete was drumming his fingers on the autoclave's chromed top, looking like he wanted to throttle his pilot.

"Yeah. Pretty sure."

"Because, let me be absolutely clear on this, if I get any more 'surprises', I'm going to revive an old Navy tradition, and have you _flogged._ Understood, Tracy?"

_No grey areas whatsoever._

"Clear, Pete."

Cho interrupted, again, bringing the conversation back around to the immediate threat. Movements small and precise, voice gentle and calming, she asked,

"John, this 'friend', why did you call him, and what did he do?"

Breaking eye contact with McCord, the pilot replied,

"I had him upload something..., an ugly defense measure his father wrote, back when someone thought my computer might become too powerful. I was hoping... I thought that by taking over Five, and incorporating her into its systems, the alien computer might have made itself vulnerable to the 'weapon', while I could still findsome way to defend her."

'_Black Death', Ike had called the program, but he'd always had a secret flair for the dramatic. And... John had never, ever thought he'd have to use the thing._

"And...?" Pete again, no longer quite so angry.

"It worked, I think."

Maybe too well. The effect on Five, whether she'd been sheltered enough to survive... or if she'd ever trust him again... John simply didn't know.

Surprisingly, the commander seemed to understand. Voice suddenly gruffer, he said,

"So, you shot through the hostage to nail the bad guy, causing it to seize our probes, and fight back."

John stared at the deck, again. _Close enough._

"Okay," Pete placed a hand on his bowed shoulder, briefly. "I've got what I need, for now."

He shifted his attention to the two doctors.

"Ladies, the rest is on you. Anything more you can learn, specifically why it waited until _we_ showed up, rather than alerting to all the machinery, and whether it's really done for, will help sketch things out for us, and the folks back at the swamp. At this point... I don't mean to inform the general public, or the press. NASA's another matter, though. _And_ ESA. We're about to have company. _Kuiper _launches tomorrow, from Baikonur, and I need to know whether or not to wave them off."

Before going forward to 'call home', he told John,

"Tracy, I said before that I trust you, and that's still true. But, if..._, for any reason...,_ you think you might become a danger to this crew, or the mission..."

John looked up again, saying simply,

"I'd shoot myself first, Pete."

McCord 's hand, still on his shoulder, tightened suddenly.

"Then, let's make sure it doesn't come to that."


	45. Chapter 45: Long Distance

_Thank you for the kind reviews. As always, the feedback from Tikatu, Opal Girl, Darkhelmet, Barb From Utah, Agent Five and Varda's Servant provide much helpful guidance. There's a great deal going on, and I'm trying not to rush things, but sometimes events turn in ways that startle me._

45

_Tracy Island; the office-_

The dazzling afternoon light had mellowed subtly, as a bright tropical sun slid behind the green mountain. Soon, computerized sensors would begin cutting on lamps and wall panels throughout the big house.

At the moment, though, all that mattered was Brains' reply, and the fate of a family member, trapped 46 million miles away, on a cold and hostile, alien world.

"Mr. T- Tracy," the engineer said, pushing an untidy thatch of brown hair away from intense, bespectacled blue eyes, "A- accurate intelligence is, ah... is critical to any f- future, ah... Future plans. W- we must know what has, ah... has happened t- to the computer and crew, in order to, ah... to assess, and th- then deal w- with, the, ah... the situation."

Scott cut in, before his father could reply. His cell phone was vibrating like mad; Cindy, no doubt, but, just then, his entire attention was focused elsewhere, like a dagger point.

"Okay. So, we need more information. How do we get it, Brains, when all the damn comm systems are down?"

Scott wanted flight plans, orders... _a mission_. Not confusion and waiting. Worse still, squashed deep inside, but growing stronger, was the terrible feeling that his brother desperately needed help... and that they might not be able to reach him.

Hackenbacker's blue eyes met Scott Tracy's shadowed ones, and the same bleak concern was mirrored therein. He and John were close friends; had been since the day the confused teenager had been relocated to the island by his father, and discovered there one of his childhood idols, a genius on the order of Erdos, Godel or Newton.

...A currently helpless genius, from whom everyone expected miracles.

"W- we keep, ah... keep trying t- to reestablish contact, S- Scott; with _Endurance,_ w- with Global Surveyor, the probes and, ah... and with John. And w- we accelerate the effing hell out of, ah... of Thunderbird 7's construction."

It was Jeff who responded, first nodding, then saying, in his smoky-deep, sonorous voice,

"Very well, Brains. Shelve every other project but the most urgent rescues. I want Thunderbird 7 go for launch inside the week. TinTin...,"

"Yes, Mr. Tracy?" The beautiful, dark-eyed girl stepped away from Grandma and Virgil.

"I'm placing you and Virgil in charge of patching a line through to _Endurance,_ and containing any Earth-side computer damage. Do whatever it takes, but make this happen. Understood?"

"Yes, Sir," they both replied, very seriously. TinTin Kyrano might be the more scientifically minded of the two, but big, brown-haired Virgil Tracy had a razor-keen head for number patterns and a near-photographic memory. On projects such as this one, they made quite a powerful team.

Jeff gave them a brisk nod.

"Get on it."

Then, turning to his remaining sons, he continued,

"Scott, Alan, I want you on the new simulator, 24-7, if you're not sleeping, eating, or on the can. Got it?"

Big-eyed with shock, golden-blond Alan glanced over at Scott, who'd nodded impassively.

"Yes, Sir!" His oldest brother responded, all but saluting.

Full of sudden, bubbling exuberance (and trying very hard to contain it), Alan whirled to face Gordon's portrait comm, but his best friend's expression was so closed and... _empty_... that the picture might just as well have been turned around backward. Alan's grin slipped, just a little. Perhaps alone among everyone present, he began to sense that something else was going wrong, not quite so far away. Question was, with everybody on fire about John _(probably changing the stupid batteries or something, out on Uranus)_, what could he do to help Gordon?

Concluded Jeff, once again dialing the number to Johnson Space Center,

"Boys..., and ladies..., I don't believe we've ever been handed a more difficult, more important, mission. I know I don't need to remind you what's at stake, here. But I will say this; when 7 launches, I'll be aboard."


	46. Chapter 46: Variables

46

_Endurance, Mars-_

Cho and Linda between them helped John Tracy out of his sand-covered hard suit. The insulating black neoprene and memory-plastic lining remained, mostly because he wasn't wearing much beneath it, and because the thing was a tedious pain to remove. It didn't so much _cling, _as _adhere, _providing protection, warmth, and constant pressure.

He only half-listened to the ladies' attempts at conversation, too busy wrestling with something internal to care much about what happened outside. It was very strange, but all at once, John had found himself crushed beneath a terrible sense of failure.

"_What?" _

Someone... Dr. Bennett... asked sharply. Evidently, he'd spoken aloud. Coming back to the moment, John saw that she was staring at him with puzzled, wary concern; brown eyes narrowed, lips pursed.

"Speak English, please, John," she told him. "Unless you _enjoy _blank stares."

Standing a bit behind and to the right of Linda, Dr. Kim also watched him with the serene, alert curiosity of a Siamese cat, or a..., He 'saw' something, only semi-understood it, and hurriedly shoved the odd visuals away. Once again forcing himself back to (almost) normal, John shook his head, and dug up a faint smile.

"No, Doctor..., but I'm getting used to them." (The blank stares, that is.)

There was a soft '_thump'_, and then a whirring noise, as a pump cut on. It was scheduled, he recalled, turning his face up to the sudden gust of smelly, filtered air hissing through its overhead vent. Nothing to worry about.

"What was it you said, before?" Linda asked him, coming closer, and pressing the point.

John considered.

So long...

So very, _very_ long to wait and watch, with parts disintegrating, thermal power fading, and radiation storms scourging the face of the drying little world... and then, when something finally began to happen... when _life_ appeared, in a sudden and unexpected form...

"I failed."

The admission hurt more than anything else had, since 17 years before, when the lid slammed shut on a long, wooden box.

Growing terribly cold, Linda glanced over at Dr. Kim, who returned the startled look, and stepped forward.

"In what way have you failed, John?" The exobiologist enquired, her voice gentle and non-threatening. Meanwhile (and very casually), Dr. Bennett was preparing a tranquilizer, slipping a rubber-capped drug vial into the needle gun, which immediately extruded a fresh tip. To keep the pilot occupied, Cho went on.

"Can you tell us more?"

He tried, but the exhaustion, the utter loss of purpose, made it difficult to speak. He felt as though he were sliding down an icy, black slope, while the distance between himself and the other beings (and the light and warmth that poured from them) grew ever greater.

Linda placed her two hands on John's slender shoulders.

"John, I want you to listen to me, very carefully; _you _did not fail. _They_ did, whoever they are, and _thank_ _God _for that! You succeeded in stopping what could have been the end of this mission, and maybe our species, as well. What you're feeling right now, isn't yours, John, and you need to let it go. Can you understand that?"

Yes..., a little. Parts of him, anyway (some of his mind, and his left wrist had caught on, but the jury was still out, everywhere else).

Linda continued, looking directly into his blue-violet eyes,

"You're John Matthew Tracy, a human man from Earth, a NASA astronaut, and a damn good pilot, and we need your help if we're going to get out of this mess. Anything else in here...,"

And she tapped at his temple, on the uninjured side (with every word and gesture, pulling him back),

"...came from someone else, and it's _got _to be shown the door."

"But understood, first!" Dr. Kim cut in, with uncharacteristic force. This was her first, and maybe only opportunity to study the work of an alien civilization. She very much wanted to_ read _the files, before discarding them. After all, Pete had said that he needed more information...

Guiding John Tracy to a seat at the medlab's work bench, Cho gave him a piece of paper, and a red marker.

"We will talk together, John," she said to the bemused young pilot, "and if something comes to you that you cannot express with words, you may draw, or use equations. Is this acceptable to you?"

John's head lowered, and he gazed at the women from behind his over-long, silver-blond hair.

"That's what the school psychologists did, back in Wyoming. They'd give me a damn puzzle, or a coloring book, as a 'distraction', while they tried to figure out what was wrong with me." And he added coldly, all at once, more himself, "I lied."

Linda came over to stand beside him, hands at her slim hips.

"Except that _we're _not trying to trick you into cooperating, John. You've known us for months; in Pete's case, years... And you're going to damn well tell the truth this time, because...,"

She shifted into a cartoonishly heavy, mock-menacing German accent,

"..._Ve haf vays to make you talk!" _And smacked the top of his blond head.

He made an abrupt, quiet sound; a laugh, almost. Then, shaking the hair away from his face with a slight head jerk, John replied,

"Okay..., but I'll need more paper. A _lot _more paper."

What he had 'seen' could not be quickly reproduced.


	47. Chapter 47: Access

_Yay, NASA, Opal Girl and Discovery! Congratulations on a wonderful landing! DarkHelmet, you were right about TB6, almost. I changed the plane just a bit, but the rest of your guesses are pretty close to spot-on. Thanks to all for the reviews, especially Tikatu, Agent Five, Varda and Barb..._

47

_Tracy Island-_

Brains had a personal aircraft, a rebuilt P-51 Mustang that they'd all jokingly taken to calling 'Thunderbird 6'. She had a monster engine, six machine guns, a full Shadowbot conversion package, and had even taken part in an aerial rescue, a few years back. Scott and John both enjoyed flying her, and Gordon had been learning how... until the kidnap, anyway. But that was another matter, one Hackenbacker had no idea how to classify, or deal with.

His plane was enough of a fixture, at any rate, that it seemed odd to number anything else '6'. So, the deep-space rescue ship was accordingly christened 'Thunderbird 7', and painted a satiny, business-like black.

Profoundly concerned for his absent friend, Hackenbacker cut corners and rushed development, blowing up a double handful of prototype engines in his quest for speed and power.

_(Just getting to Mars wasn't good enough, after all, if they arrived too late to help John.) _

Several test-firing accidents later, Brains realized that what he actually needed wasn't a faster engine, but a shortcut through space; a 'by-pass'. And thus, what was then probably the most powerful mind on Earth bent itself to the task of warping the fabric of the cosmos.

_The Office-_

TinTin, meanwhile, worked with Virgil in a fog of bliss and confusion. Even after John finally made contact, the pair continued checking Five's Earthly components for outside contamination, not really certain what to look for.

Many times, watching lines of code slip past until her eyes burned and her mind grew doughy, TinTin tried to reveal what she was pretty sure were her feelings, but Virgil, as Gordon had pointed out, was quite blind when it came to women. The young artist was too firmly lodged in his own head to see much more than a rarely updated 'mental snap-shot' of those around him. Only when he sat down to draw somebody, did he take the time to really look... and he _wasn't _drawing TinTin. Never had.

One rainy afternoon at the office, when her father had finally left off prowling about to cook dinner, and Grandma had fallen asleep in her cushioned seat, TinTin gathered her courage together in a bright, tenuous soap-bubble, and scooted her rolling chair closer to Virgil's.

She had chosen her outfit very carefully that morning, trying hard to look older than her sixteen years. She wore a peach silk shift (casual, yet sophisticated) and her long, black hair was piled atop her head in a complicated up-do. Very becoming...

Except that Virgil Tracy, wearing jeans and a plaid work shirt, seemed not to have noticed.

"Hey," he said, suddenly, eyes riveted to his comm screen, _"that _could be a... No. Just another zombie. Damn!"

The big, handsome pilot leaned back in his creaking chair, closing tired brown eyes and stretching.

"I can't... believe... John gets... _into_ this...!"

The slow words were drawn out and distorted by a series of long yawns. Another engine blew up on the test pad, but Brains signaled the all-clear over the house comm, so Virgil and TinTin sat down, again. As the wind blew, and rain pattered and swept against the window panes in silvery, blurring sheets, the young man went on.

"Anyway... that about does it for WorldGov's mainframe. Nothing weirder in there than a few role-playing sites and some smutty email. How's InterBanc looking?"

"Oh...!" TinTin stopped staring long enough to hit a few keys, saying brightly, "Merely spam, and the usual 'phishermen', Virgil. Nothing which seems truly alien. It... would feel like wasted time, I think, if I did not so... enjoy working with you."

And then, very daring, she placed a light hand on his muscular forearm.

"Huh?" Virgil glanced over, really seeing her, this time. Then he laughed a little, reached over, and mussed the carefully pinned hair at the top of her head with a friendly hand.

"Yeah... The company's great. You're a nice kid, TinTin. It's the _job _that's got me tied in knots. I need to get outside, in the worst way."

Shaking his head, the middle Tracy added in lower tones,

"No wonder John's so weird. Soon as he gets back, I'm gonna drag his ass camping; at gun-point, if I have to. Maybe then, he'll..."

But TinTin had stopped listening. _'Kid'_. She was a _'nice kid_', barely six months older than the deeply immature Alan, and therefore, in Virgil's eyes, no more than a child. Like a neon sign glowing bright and warm through the distortion of her crude blocks, his 'big-brother' feelings were plain.

Tears stung her dark eyes, which burned now with girlish, barely concealed grief. The Hood, her uncle, would have advocated forcing the matter, but for TinTin, there was no such option. She would not become the terrible thing that her father feared too much to speak of.

All she could do was struggle to her feet and flee the room, wishing for Gordon, her sudden retreat followed by two pairs of eyes, the first baffled, the second sad and knowing.

_Endurance, Mars Base, the medlab-_

To supply him with enough paper, they'd had to cannibalize three separate procedural manuals, tearing them swiftly, unthinkingly apart. John's subsequent behavior confused both doctors, for it at first struck them as perfectly potty.

Rather than talking to them, or writing upon just _one_ sheet, he stacked a ream and a half on the work bench before him, and began flipping through it, making seemingly random marks, one leaf of paper at a time. Gradually, Dr. Kim realized what he was doing. In bright red marker, from top to bottom of the ragged stack, John Tracy was drawing a 3-D image of... something.

Interior and exterior views emerged in three colors (Linda provided a 'honey-brown' Mary Kay eye-pencil and a yellow highlighter, with which he began circling letters). When he reached the final sheet, John stared for an instant, then shook his blond head.

"No... that's not it..."

Turning to Bennett, the pilot asked,

"Doctor, can I borrow a scalpel?"

"Which one?" Linda inquired. She had several, one a high tech laser knife, the others diamond-edged, micro-sharpened steel.

"Laser." He was in a hurry.

The requisite tool was handed over, and John began cutting a small, twisting hollow through the stacked paper. Faint, thready smoke rose, accompanied by a spattering crackle, and the smell of burning paper. John ignored it and worked on, utterly absorbed. Except at the controls of the ship, they'd never seen him this way. It was rather fascinating.

Bennett forgot herself enough to set down the tranquilizer, draw close and steady the pile for him, while Cho murmured to a recording device in soft, sing-song Korean. Then, he needed paper clips, twelve of them. These were bent into odd shapes and positioned just so within the still-glowing hollow.

Finally, marginally less dissatisfied, the pilot said,

"Run it through the scanner, and have the sensors set to pick up the marker, clips and make-up, then tip it 15 degrees to forward left and reset for just circled capital _'A'_ s. Repeat process 30 degrees further forward left, and scan for highlighted lower case _'q' _s. You'll get an image."

He looked up again, at first Kim, then Linda.

"I'm not very creative, but I can reproduce what I've memorized." (Virgil was the artist of the family.)

Wildly curious, they complied, and before long had a three-dimensional hologram rotating in the air above the bench, projected by Linda's PET scanner. In glowing hues of green, red and yellow, it seemed to pulse and change form, sometimes writhing nearly inside-out. The three humans looked long and silently at something not even _remotely _terrestrial.

Then, Pete strode in, ducking through the hatch with a brisk command on his lips that died in mid-sentence. Stopping short, he stared at the protean hologram.

"Our 'friends'?" He hazarded, at last, recovering slightly. The sandy-haired mission commander was about as timid as he was elegant. When John nodded, Pete responded sourly,

"Ugly sonuvabitch..." Then, "Got anything for me besides pictures?"

Actually, yes; far more than he could express at one sitting. John felt like someone who'd hauled himself from the clutch of a vivid nightmare, anxious to get the details out of his head, and safely away. Some of the visuals were interesting, others incomprehensible, or deeply worrisome.

Where to begin?

"I think it's shut down... but there's a physical location..." (coordinates tumbled from him, only partly in English, and extending well beyond the usual three reference points; Valles Marineris, in a deep and ancient cavern) "...that needs to be checked out, if we want to be certain. But, _they,"_

A swift, impatient gesture, back at the hovering image,

"...aren't here. Their tool is, or was. I don't think that its creators could operate long at this... 'flat' a level."

For just an instant, he saw himself as something like an image printed on a sheet of paper, viewed from above. Very strange, and unsettling. Like he was just a shadow, flickering blithely across wall and grass and sidewalk, thinking all along that he was doing his own will. But maybe that was true of everyone? That they were all just shadows, cast by something more substantial higher up, illuminated from God-knows-where? Question was, which Earthly 'shadow' corresponded to the rotating image, if any?

It was hard to visualize, and harder still to express, so he switched to safe, simple physics.

"You know string theory?" John asked, suddenly.

Cho nodded, as did Roger, who by this time had come back to check on the others.

"It's correct, sort of," the pilot continued hurriedly. "Aspects of it, anyway. Like if..."

Inspired, John made a sudden, partly hidden move.

"Ever held hands with someone, under the table?"

Everybody nodded but Linda, who looked rather surprised. Then he stroked his thumb across her palm, causing the outraged doctor to jerk her hand back. John hardly noticed.

"You may not see exactly what's going on, but you can tell there's communication of _some _sort, because of the reaction. Well, on our level, forces and particles interact like that, linked outside our framework... 'under the table'."

Pete looked over at Linda, who was glaring at Tracy. There, at least, was _one _particle that was becoming pretty deeply entangled, he thought. As the physician was too upset to respond, the commander switched his glance to Kim Cho, who answered his questioning look with a reassuring nod. In her opinion, Tracy was bursting with alien viewpoints, but basically sound. That he also represented an enormous leap in technology, possibly the future of the space program... or International Rescue... didn't escape McCord's attention. John Tracy had just become the most valuable thing on the ship.

"Sorry to cut the session short, doctors, but we've got plans to make. At first light, tomorrow, we're going after those supply cylinders, all of us. What we find when we get there will dictate the remainder of the mission, whether we search for that 'physical location', or cut for home. Second point... I got through to Houston, plus Phil at IMS, and Irina Poriskova, in _Kuiper._ They're aware of the situation, and the president's being informed. Next on the agenda's a teleconference, to reassure the public and news media. _Everyone_ appears on camera, but watch what you say. No-one outside the loop needs to know what really happened. Got it?"

There were nods all around. Or, almost all.

"Tracy?"

John hesitated. Clearly, McCord knew all about his connection to IR, and wanted the two spheres kept well separate. For some reason (and why in hell the question picked now to burst out, he had no idea), John asked,

"Pete, did you..." ('Trust', he'd been about to say) _"...like _my father?"

The mission commander looked surprised, but put the oddly timed question down to exhaustion and pain medication. The ship's main air pump cut on again, providing a moment's distraction. Then, he responded, speaking rather slowly.

"We were pretty tight, for awhile. Yeah, I liked the old Jeff Tracy; the pilot and explorer. But, then, he quit the space program for the world of 'high finance', and drifted away. Our wives kept in touch, until Lucy... until your mother passed. After that, we had no more to say to each other, for a long, long time."

Until Jeff's son had turned up as a youthful intern, against all odds... immediately attracting Pete McCord's attention, and unsubtle guidance.

"You, uh... remind me of the Jeff I _thought _I knew, not the Wall Street Journal centerfold."

The sudden image of his father, posing for a spread in the Journal, with a stack of credit chips and a staple covering his 'strategic area', gave John a full body shiver.

"Thanks, Pete. I appreciate the imagery. Really."

McCord grinned.

"Any time, Tracy. My door is always open... and the mike will be, too, in about five minutes. Everybody up front, and remember... we had a temporary comm breakdown, but everything's fine; one big, happy-family road trip. Tracy..."

The commander tapped at the side of his own, unshaven face,

"... you fell, and cut yourself up a little. Nothing more, to _anyone. _Understood?"

For reasons of his own (mostly having to do with NASA not being made to look helpless, or missing out on critical new technology) McCord wanted no IR involvement. As far as the commander was concerned, they could handle the situation 'in house', perhaps even completing their mission. After all, they hadn't come this far, survived sabotage, attack, low supplies and alien takeover attempts, just to back down and scream for help, now.

John (who cared for his family, but had no desire to be 'rescued' by them, not if there was any way to avoid it) agreed. He coulddeal withthis... as long as Five had come through all right.

"Understood, Pete."

Planning contingencies with a sore and cluttered mind, John got to his feet and followed Roger and Cho into the mid-deck, preparing to help put out a media firestorm.

Pete waved them on past, stopping Bennett at the hatch for a swift consult.

"Well, Doctor?" The commander asked her, his blue eyes very direct.

Linda shrugged, scowling down through the slatted metal deck at bundled wiring.

"He'll be fine, is my guess. A little disoriented, but it's been an eventful day. I'll make sure he doesn't say anything too strange, on camera."

Pete shook his head.

"I was talking about _you, _actually. You were pissed as hell, back there, and I wanted to find out if Thorpe and I need to give Tracy a little 'wall-to-wall sensitivity training'."

Linda thawed enough to smile at him. Good ol' Pete, worried about all the wrong things...

"No," she told him, blushing. "He's okay. I just... wasn't really expecting that hand business. It didn't mean anything. Not really."

Yet, she couldn't quite meet McCord's x-ray gaze, leading him to a quick and accurate conclusion.

"Okay. So, you want him. I'll..."

"_No!"_ Bennett stabbed a forefinger at the commander's hard-suited chest. "Pete, don't you _dare _pencil it into his checklist! Let's see..."

She mimed consulting a cuff pad, her voice suddenly gone bright and artificial,

"...consume red flight day luncheon... police galley area... initiate docking maneuvers with Doctor Bennett (refer to manual 23, subsection 2.5.1-B for detailed schematics...). _Hell, _no! Back off, McCord, I'll get over it!"

"Sure, you will," Pete replied. "After a lot of emotional 'smoky whifferdills'. Handle it your way, Doctor, but remember; the red pencil's always ready, and I have access to the checklist. I'm there for you."

"What a guy." Once more, leaning forward, _"No!"_

Pete shrugged resignedly, and waved her through the hatch. Peering in at the assembled crew, the commander folded his arms across his chest with a sharp, metallic rattle, then shook his head.

_...And it was only August..._


	48. Chapter 48: Conversation

_Deep apologies for the slowness, life's been particularly 'random' lately. I've got a lot of reading and reviewing to do...! On the bright side, I seem to have solved the "three dots and a comma" problem. Ask me about the Standard Model, and I'll paint a picture, but bring up punctuation, or double consonents, and I have to reach for a manual, or a wiser friend. Anyway, thanks to everyone for the commentary and encouragement. I'm glad if John sounds correct, for someone extremely intelligent... I've been terribly concerned that I'd get him wrong. _

48

The 'call home' might have gone better, he later decided. They were, of course, tremendously relieved to hear from him. Though comm had been lost for less than three hours, the blackout had been just about all-inclusive, silencing not just _Endurance,_ but Mars Global Surveyor, the probes, the polar observatory, COBE, Hubble, and even Earth's gravitational space antenna, LISA.

All of a sudden, the 'squawk boxes' went ominously quiet, leaving five widely separated families in doubt and darkness. What had happened?

With _Kuiper_ already on the launch pad, her seven-man crew strapped in and eager to go, the answer to that question became doubly important.

Then, Pete McCord patched himself through, speaking first to the tense, frantically busy knot of engineers and scientists in Houston, and then to Riley, and his fellow mission commander, Captain Poriskova. The message wasn't long,

"_All personnel secure at present, situation uncertain, please stand by..."_

...but it snapped most of the tension. All over Kennedy, Johnson, Glenn and Baikonur, people heaved shuddering sighs, slumped in their seats, and rubbed at their throbbing temples.

As Gene Porter had put it, all those months before, the Ares III crew were far beyond hope of rescue; had something gone disastrously wrong, NASA could have done nothing more than launch a post-mortem. Even _Kuiper,_ armed with photon engines powered by lasers so hideously strong they could only be fired 350,000 miles from Earth, would have arrived too late to help. (Due to relativistic time distortions.)

So, pretty near everyone was glad of the mission commander's message, laconic, or not.

Later, when a bit more information had been exchanged, and the press soothed, the crew took time to gather around the main comm screen and call their worried families. John Tracy wasn't first; the calling order rotated, and this time, he was third in the line-up.

Dr. Kim reached her parents in Manhattan on the first try. They'd been sitting together on a beige sofa; a frail-seeming, middle-aged Korean couple with greying hair and anxious eyes. Cho was their jewel, their only child, and they were both terribly proud of her, and deeply concerned. In their view, too much success was a dangerous thing. Better to keep your head down, work hard, and tuck the rewards away in a safety deposit box.

When their daughter's image appeared on the comm screen, Mrs. Kim put her face in her hands for just an instant, rocking back and forth. Her husband, a shipping magnate, put a steadying hand on his wife's shoulder, and gave Kim Cho a brief, calm smile.

Their actual conversation wasn't long (the comm was frustratingly slow, and full of flickery hissing), but Dr. Kim nevertheless reported that she was well, and doing her job, and that she had wonderful news that would wait for a more private, auspicious moment. They closed with _'I love you' _s after the usual 20 minute delay, and then it was Pete's turn.

Dark-haired Lydia McCord (tall for a woman, and still strikingly beautiful) had been stoic right up to the point that her short, sandy-haired husband's smiling face appeared on the screen. Then, biting her full lower lip, still trying to be the perfect astronaut's wife, she began softly crying.

Their impish daughter, Stephanie, had to do most of the 'talking', signing so fast that she was difficult to understand. Pete spoke and signed simultaneously, calling the girl 'little mischief', and asking about her studies at Gallaudet, and her up-coming 'big decision'.

(Out of respect for Deaf Culture, there were three times in a hearing-impaired child's life when they were asked if they'd like an operation to restore hearing; at 7 years of age, at 12, and one last time, at 21. Twice now, Steph McCord had refused surgery. After all, she had parents who loved her, a campus full of similarly talented friends, and two 'hot' astronaut buddies she could giggle about with the other girls. Life didn't _get _any better.)

"Bratty," Pete said, and signed, "You take good care of yourself, and your mother." _There was so little time, and so much to say... _"I'm bringing back a present."

She shook her head, the signs slowing as they fluttered emphatically around her body in the manner and location that indicated exasperated command.

"_Present no, Daddy. You home. At Student Bistro, girls want meet you. Why? I promised you come_ _with John, and Roger."_

John, who couldn't help 'overhearing' this last bit, looked away to cover his sudden confusion. Stephanie was a childhood playmate who'd grown into a lovely young woman, but he hated public events, especially those with himself as one of the main attractions. Maybe she'd settle for something quieter?

Pete kept his feelings to himself.

Toward the end of the conversation, Lydia finally pulled herself together enough to give her husband a watery smile and to say/sign,

"We love you, Sailor, and we're staying the course. Come home safe, sound and soon... all of you."

And then she placed a kiss upon the slim fingers of her right hand, which was pressed upon the comm screen for Pete to retrieve by touching the glass on his end. He did so, bringing the kiss to his own lips. His voice husky, his signing unusually sloppy, Pete McCord closed with,

"Love you, too. Back before you know it, Ladies. Count on it."

And then, it was John's turn. He wished, suddenly, that he could have begged off. In the face of such obvious devotion, he felt somehow tepid and pale. The Tracys certainly loved each other, on some stony, rarely-spoken-of level... but the McCords' open affection was utterly alien, and a bit depressing. Stephanie had sometimes behaved that way at him, diving at John and embracing him as though he were the most cherished thing imaginable, though never for long, as she couldn't really hug him and speak.

But, now the family was up; his father and Scott closest to the screen, bracing Grandma between them. Gordon looked soberly on from another wall comm, with Virgil, Alan, Gennine, Ike and TinTin ranged all about, craning for a glimpse of their exhausted astronaut. Glancing over the assemblage, John couldn't help noticing who _wasn't _there. And, deep inside, something that had limped painfully along for two cold, empty years, was finally put to sleep. Maybe, it had never really existed in the first place...

"It's good to see you, Son," Jeff was saying, a broad smile touching his craggy features. "How are you?"

John hesitated, realizing that there was more to that question, and his eventual reply, than was evident to the other astronauts. Pete might know that John, himself, was a member of International Rescue, but its true status as a 'family operation' was probably still secret, and the pilot wanted to keep it so. But, how to warn the family off, without giving anything away?

With a slight nod of his blond head, John replied,

"Thank you, Sir. I'm fine. We've had some... randomness, but all that's settled, now. No cause for alarm."

Grandma wasn't impressed. Peering at John through her magnifying spectacles, the silver-haired old lady snapped,

"Boy, _what did you do to your face?"_

Genuinely startled, John put a hand to the bandaged cuts. Thanks to Linda's pain and swelling medications, all he felt was a bit of stiffness. He'd forgotten all about the less-than-purple-heart injuries, and the practically shrink-wrapped, black suit liner he was wearing.

"Um... I fell," he told her, not very convincingly. "Outside. Didn't see all the... rocks."

_Shit._ With prevarication skills like those, he might as well have entered the priesthood. Twenty minutes later,

"_John Matthew!"_ His grandmother retorted, her big brown eyes narrowing suspiciously, "I ain't so close to the grave, yet, that you can look me in the face and pass off a whopper like that one! Now, what the hell's..."

"Mother!" Jeff hissed, hauling the stoutly resisting old Tartar aside.

"Don't you 'mother' me, Jeffery Connal! I wasn't born in a hayrick! Something's happening, and by God, I'll...!"

Scott took up the slack, as Jeff retreated beneath Victoria's furious onslaught. Looking hard into his younger brother's violet-blue eyes, the fighter pilot asked quietly,

"Everything okay, out there?"

John knew the code, just as Scott, Gordon and the others did. If he needed help, and couldn't admit it in so many words...

But, _'all quiet on the western front' _wasn't what he said. Gazing back at his older brother, John recalled the many times Scott had hauled him out of trouble, risked Jeff's anger, outright _lied _to cover for him, even. Not this time. Some of that debt had been repaid in Macedonia. The rest was past due, and John wasn't going to let his brother... his family... risk themselves needlessly, for him.

"Thanks for all the concern, but don't get your shorts in a bunch, Scott. We're fine."

It was a long twenty minutes. At last the screen flickered again, updating the static image. For some reason, John noticed the background, first. Genuinely hurt, Virgil stood there with his mouth open, while Alan's golden eyebrows had shot halfway up his forehead. Jeff and Grandma had stopped arguing to stare at the screen with matching scowls. TinTin, Brains and Gennine looked puzzled and concerned... and no more convinced than Scott did. Only Gordon held steady, but, like John himself, the young aquanaut appeared to have something else on his mind.

On the other end, Linda, Kim and Roger were perfectly silent, while Pete, who was pretending to work on tomorrow's checklists, listened intently. Said Scott, sounding rather subdued (but not giving up; not really),

"Okay, little brother. It's your call." Almost as if he meant it.

John braced himself for round two, which probably wouldn't be long in coming.

The allotted comm time was nearly past, Roger and Linda still waiting to make calls of their own, but there was something he _had _to do. Looking past Scott, John said to his former, never-wanted, step-mother (in some sense, _mom)_,

"Um... hi."

Gennine blinked. John Tracy hadn't addressed more than three or four perfunctory comments to her since San Marco, having evidently filed her away and tidied the loose emotions to his own satisfaction. Weakly, she responded,

"Hello, John. How... er, how is Mars, this time of year?"

He pondered this for a moment.

"Cold," the pilot replied, at last. "Sort of dry... needs development. A few hotel chains and some souvenir stands, maybe."

Jeff seemed interested, but Gennine was truly horrified.

"_You're joking!" _

"Yes." He managed a bit of a smile, even.

She laughed then, and it was _exactly_ the same throaty, joyous explosion. Pete, he suddenly noticed, had stopped writing. Didn't look up, though.

Now... when she finished laughing, there was a fond, slightly confused sparkle in her blue eyes. John had to force himself not to look away. She said, smiling in almost the same way,

_(God, it hurt like hell... and somehow helped)_

"I... we're so proud of you, John. I can't wait to hear all about it, first hand."

Time was up, so he restricted himself to a business-like nod.

"Sure. Got to go. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

"Cool, Mom!" Alan cut in, laughing his butt off. "That means you can drive too fast, get drunk, hack all the banks and school systems, and have loads of one-nighters! Well... not the last part. You're too old for _that_..."

Thinking,

'_Next time, definitely: email.'_

John retreated, to let a rather grim Linda Bennett have her go at the comm. The doctor had a short, pithy conversation with her sort-of 'boyfriend', Spencer Burke, the head of neurosurgery at Walter Reed Army Hospital. They were very polite, very formal and distant. Not surprising, as he was nearly twenty years older, and had a demanding, round-the-clock career.

Then, Roger chatted and laughed with his own large and rollicking clan (siblings, cousins, aunts and uncles, parents, even _neighbors_ had crowded in to see their boy). They were a loud bunch, boisterous and happy, but John paid scant attention. Excusing himself, he headed out to the nearly barren galley to watch the clock tick over in Zulu-time, and listen to the aluminum counter tops vibrate along with the air pumps. _Noisy damn ship_.

He'd deliberately pissed-off half his family, grievously injured his computer, was strung out on pain medication, with a head full of alien figures... _and _it was his night to cook. Yeah. He felt great.

Question was, what could he accomplish with a handful of rice, a small box of whole-wheat noodles, reconstituted beef chunks, and ketchup?


	49. Chapter 49: Manifold

_Punctuation lessons always gleefully accepted! Somebody once said that if they'd wanted to learn all those particle names, they'd have become a botanist, which is how I feel about commas, periods, schwas, etc. Anyway,thanks as ever to Tikatu, Darkhelmet, Agent Five, Barb and Varda's Servant for their kind reviews. It's nice to hear these things, and hey, I'm having fun..._

49

_Endurance; in the galley (that miracle of modern engineering)-_

...Well, there was always the 'Edible Tissue Culture Project', or ETCuP, though no one aboard had been desperate enough to try it. Yet.

After deliberating for a bit, John reasoned that the whole-wheat noodles might be smashed into small enough pieces to be boiled along with the rice... and that the beef chunks, when removed from their vacuum-sealed plastic envelope, rehydrated, and allowed to swell to normal size, would generate a slurry of ketchup-spiked gravy that could then be dumped atop the rice mixture... But, of vegetables, they had nothing else at all.

Roger had used the very last quarter-teaspoon of dehydrated onion flakes the night before, spiking his 'Curried Mashed Protein Crackers in Seasoned Sauce' (an old family recipe, he'd assured them all). Salt, too, was running low, and pepper the stuff of fond memory. Nothing tasted right, even _with _spices, but there wasn't enough to go around, regardless.

Shrugging, John set the rice and crushed pasta in the microwave with a few cups of recycled water (best not dwelt on), and punched in a cook time at random. Not exactly like running the Texas Super Collider, whose operating parameters he understood to a much higher level of precision. After all, the only thing he'd had to do _there_ was produce Higgs Bosons, not dinner... Kyrano, he decided glumly, was a goddam savant.

Now for the (sort of) meat, which seemed far from 'go for launch' (except out the window, maybe). The 'use-by' date, he couldn't help noticing, had been marked over in heavy black ink. For all he knew, the package originated from the Gemini program, or World War II.

There was something shining at the back of his mind. An elegant, 4D equation in beautiful, unfamiliar symbols. It fairly sang for his full attention, but John had work to do, first. This was no time for parity errors.

Bolted beneath the narrow aluminum counter was a sort of giant 'letter opener', used to slit heavy plastic food packages. John used it now to cut his way through the cammo-green beef envelope, which made a noise like an Egyptian tomb being opened for the first time in 3,000 years, and emitted the smell of elderly dog food. Mentally washing his hands of the whole, sorry business, John used a hard plastic kitchen utensil to pry the mummified beef from its unquiet grave.

Into another bowl it went, to be decently re-buried under a blanket of ketchup, nature's perfect food. He stared at the glutinous mess, then added a bit of water, thinking,

'_What the hell... it can't get any worse.'_

In his mind, the lovely equation pushed closer to the surface, becoming clearer by the moment. Temporarily transfixed, John mentally rotated it, watching what happened to reality as he did so.

Reality! Ominous popping noises from the microwave interrupted his reverie. Rice wasn't supposed to _explode_, was it? Lunging across the narrow, roughly cylindrical galley, John cut off the microwave with a hasty slap, and yanked open the door. Steam belched forth, while something hissed and spattered within. Fetching a thermal mitt, he removed the bowl and regarded its crusted contents. Well... it was certainly 'al dente'.

The first few days aboard Thunderbird 5, he'd actually tried to cook. The resultant, inedible disasters had more than convinced John Tracy that snack food and frozen dinners were all that stood between him and starvation. Here, though, he was expected to pull his weight, even if he routinely pulled it straight into the garbage chute.

With touching innocence, John added more water, thinking that the rock-hard substance in the Pyrex bowl might yet return to life.The rice and pasta crust were set down upon the counter beside the rapidly swelling mass of hydrating beef. The smell was indescribable, and better left so. It was at that precise point that John began seriously considering the Edible Tissue Culture.

Covering both bowls, he pushed the equation back down again, and proceeded aft, to the ship's experimental work area (the science lab, they usually called it). There, amid elementary school space projects, the fish tanks, rat cage and work benches, was a chromed incubation cabinet, about the size of a dormitory refrigerator.

John went over and opened its door, revealing there a sort of big petri plate, with nutrient and waste flow hoses, electrical wiring, oxygen tubes and a growth monitor. All of this technology supported a two-inch thick mass of pinkish, lab-cultured 'meat'. According to the technical specs, you were supposed to just slice a piece off and allow the rest to regenerate.

John gazed at the shiny lump for a long moment, thought of Scott's campfire horror stories about _'The Chicken Heart',_ and shut the door. Not just that the mess inside looked even more disgusting than his beefy-noodle surprise (shock, rather), but he really wasn't sure he wanted to make the thing mad. In the movies, vengeful tissue cultures had a way of getting even. Of course, so did computers, which put him to mind of Five, again.

His worry for the wounded quantum entity, never deeply buried, surfaced again. In the long hours since he'd unleashed a virus to beat back whatever had attempted to seize Five, she'd done nothing more than slightly warm the ID chip at his left wrist. Otherwise, no word. Nor had he been able to contact Hackenbacker through the entangled photon comm system she operated. In effect, his computer seemed to be in something very close to a near-death coma, and he had no clear idea how to help her.

Leaving the lab, John started forward again, pausing to look out of the exercise area port hole. He had to focus past his own gaunt reflection, not that there was much else to see. It was still dark outside, pitch black beyond the harsh yellow gleam of _Endurance's _flood lights. The rusty dunes and wind-scoured rocks around the ship seemed bleached and pale, the twisted hulk of a ruined probe somehow as lonely and pathetic as a field of horns and frozen muzzles sticking out of a deep, fence-line snow drift back in Wyoming; a sight he'd never forgotten.

Further out, hidden by darkness, lay the supply cache they had to reach, if they hoped to survive. All levity aside, their food was nearly gone, and unlike the crew of the original _Endurance,_ they could not fall back on penguins and seals. There wasn't anything here to kill and eat.

The Ares III crew faced a simple, stark choice; reach the supply cylinders, starve to death, or place themselves in suspended animation and hope that rescue arrived before the ship's power failed. Pete, Linda and Cho would have a decent chance, he thought. Roger was iffy... And John, himself, doomed. He would not survive another dose of cryoprotectant, which for him would amount to death by lethal injection.

Folding his arms upon the porthole's projecting 'sill', John rested his chin on his forearms and gazed out at the cold, windy little world beyond the steel-glass panel. All of a sudden wondering where Earth was, he closed his eyes to summon up a 3-D mental map of the solar system (sort of _'you are here'_). Time, speed and distance...

At their current point in time, with Mars in _this _orientation relative to the sun... Earth would be further in, scooting along her smaller orbit... _there._ (_Plenty of launch window, still_, for _Kuiper. Day and a half, at least._)

He sawthe worldin his mind's eye, blue and warm and wet, wistfully improbable, and almost impossibly far away. Opening his eyes again, John gazed in the right direction and said, very quietly,

"Sorry about that, Scott. I didn't mean it. I really _would _be glad to see you, if you came out this way, but it's dangerous here, and I'd rather not put you guys at risk. Tell you all about it over a few beers, when I get home. Promise."

...But dinner wasn't preparing itself. Reluctantly, John straightened, turning away from the window. The supply run lay before them, tomorrow; desicated beef and crunchy rice, tonight.

_Lab 4, Tracy Island-_

Brains made ready to trigger his newest device. He stood in one of the larger, chrome and concrete physics labs, not far from his prototype 'time machine'. The room was triple blast-shielded, and nearly featurelessbut for a glass-fronted equipment cabinet, an aluminum table, and some arcane hardware that ought (in theory, at least) to open up a very small 'hole'.

One of Hackenbacker's key early discoveries had been that, along a nearby parallel plane, there lay a tiny universe still in the earliest throes of its own 'big bang'very close in actual space, but with an enormous time differential. This incredibly dense, super-heated quantum packet of a dimension could be readily mined for its energy... if you had the technology to do so. Which, needless to say, he did. Alone among mankind's physicists and thinkers, Dr. Hackenbacker had the rampaging power of an entire baby universe at his fingertips (a fact known only to John, 'Fermat', and Jeff Tracy).

The skinny, dark-haired engineer pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose and set to work, barely noticing when Scott Tracy strode into the lab, a small dog playing and yipping about his heels. Brains had donned goggles, and set up a sort of null-energy shield about himself. Now, he connected his machinery to its other-dimensional power source, and hit the on-button.

If it worked, he could connect the spot six inches before him to the far side of the lab (about thirty yards away), through a tiny, stable worm hole.

Whining to life, the machine converted its sudden torrent of energy to mass, temporarily creating something denser than Jupiter and Saturn combined, that was nevertheless smaller than a child's glass marble. Almost instantaneously, the super-bright mass ripped a hole, opening two windows. For a moment, Brains saw directly before him a section of aluminum table, with his _'E equalsMC2'_ coffee mug on it, close enough to pick up and take a drink from.

Then, something terrible happened. Many somethings. The dog howled, Scott shouted unintelligibly, the glass cabinet-front and coffee mug shattered, and the room itself seemed to bend upward at a sharp right angle. Alarms shrilled, then abruptly cut off, their wiring snapped short as if by sharpened pliers.

Horrified, Brains flipped a row of switches, in effect pulling the machine's plug. The coruscating mass winked out, the wormhole zipped shut, and the room about him unfolded, leaving behind a buckled floor, splintered glass, and badly injured bystanders.

Scott had dropped to his knees, coughing blood, while the spotted dog huddled against him and whimpered. Hackenbacker ripped off the goggles and ran to the pilot's side. Noting an almost spectral pallor, ragged breathing and abdominal swelling, Brains diagnosed serious internal damage... To the animal, as well, probably...

A tremor set up, rocking the very island, then grumbled slowly away before it could shake itself into a full-fledged earthquake. A bloodied Alan Tracy burst into the lab moments later, trailed at a slight distance by Virgil and Jeff.

"_Dude!_ What're you...?"

"M - merely an experiment," Hackenbacker muttered. "It didn't, ah... didn't quite w- work as, ah... as anticipated."

"No doubt, Einstein!" Alan yelled back, "Mom's arm is, like, broken, and stuff!"

"I'm truly s- sorry," Brains began, as Virgil and Jeff helped him get Scott off the cracked and tilted floor. Calming himself somewhat, Alan picked up the dog, who licked his face gratefully.

"Brains," Jeff cut in, trying to ignore his own cracked ribs, "what the hell happened h..."

Then the nearest wall comm flashed to sparkinglife, revealing TinTin's pale, bruised face.

"Mr. Tracy," she said, "there are reports of minor earthquakes and tidal surges in a line extending from this island... and a cargo plane has had its wings sheared off, and been forced to ditch in the ocean, about ninety-two miles away, Sir."

"Oh, my God...!" Virgil glanced down at Scott, obviously in no shape for anything but emergency surgery. Dad looked pretty rough, as well. John was gone, Gordon too far away to help rescue those people from the disasterIR hadsomehow caused.

"Alan, TinTin, d'you think you're up to..."

His youngest brother nodded eagerly.

"For sure, Virgil! We can handle pulling a couple of pilots out of the water. Right, T?"

TinTin agreed, her voice calm, but her face shining.

"C'est vrai, Alain. Virgil, I am glad to help, in any way needed."

Said Jeff, wincing as Scott's weight dragged at his wounded side,

"I'll fly the desk. Be careful, you three; God knows what else has happened."


	50. Chapter 50: Rescue 101

_Consequences and reprecussions, so to speak... And, yes, Brains hasgot some 'splainin to do. Thank you, as ever for the reviews, and I promise an ending, relatively soon (that '50' kind of hit me, all at once...)_

50

Alan Tracy had leapt into rough waters before. Driven by desperation and foolish courage he'd grabbed a line and plunged into the frigid Chukchi Sea after Gordon, who'd been fighting a losing battle to keep two hypothermic submariners afloat and alive.

_Then, _Alan had jumped into danger with little preparation and less forethought. _Now,_ with Thunderbird 2's forward rescue hatch open onto wild, disturbed water and strafing winds, he had a much clearer idea of what he was getting himself into. It looked crazy out there, and he very much wished that Gordon was along to joke around, and insult him. Somehow, his brother always seemed to turn this sort of white-knuckle mess into an adventure. A successful one. (Gordon's attitude was beginning to change, of course, but Alan hadn't really accepted that, yet.)

He'd donned a neoprene wetsuit and mask, and TinTin (also wet-suited, just in case) now helped him into a stout nylon drop harness. In the warm amber lighting of 2's winch compartment, her face was serene... and slightly unfamiliar. Before setting off, she'd calmly taken a pair of Grandma's cloth shears and slashed off her own thick, shining hair. Now her pert face was framed by a sort of wild pageboy, dark and chaotic as the weather.

A bulkhead comm crackled to life. Virgil called down over 2's rumbling vibration (his slight mumble telling Alan and TinTin that he'd lit a cigarette, and was speaking around it),

"Show time. I've picked up a few bursts from the pilots' locators, but nothing from their raft or emergency radio... something's messing with transmission and GPS reception, and the damn compass' gone crazy, so make it snappy, Alan, and stay focused, out there."

_...Like he planned to pirouette all the way down, strumming a ukulele and singing 'Polly-Wolly Doodle'...!_ Virgil would _never _have said anything like that to Gordon, or 'Astro-Boy'! Alan was sure of it.

Brushing TinTin aside with an impatient gesture, the teenager hit the nearest comm button and snapped back,

"Dude, I'm on top of this! Fly your Bird, and let me worry about the drop, okay?"

Whatever Virgil Tracy may have thought in response, his comment was a thoroughly professional,

"FAB, Alan. It's all yours."

_Darn skippy! _Peering out through the hatch again, the boy could see murky, fifteen-foot swells, their white hair blown into long, ragged streamers by ferocious winds. Some hundred feet below, a nearly-swamped life raft spun and slid at the mercy of the churned-up sea, its occupants clinging desperately to straps and braces as they prayed for rescue. In the distance, the last traces of a cargo jet's guttering engine and tail assembly disappeared beneath the surface, sucking scattered parcels and bits of torn fuselage down with it.

TinTin made as if to kiss his cheek for luck, but Alan, who wanted to seem as tough and professional as Virgil sounded, effected not to notice. Instead, he turned away, checked the straps and buckles of his harness, and then jumped.

Once again came the stomach-lurching drop, the clawing wind, and mighty impact with green, angry water that first battered, then attempted to swallow him, whole and struggling. Kicking upward, Alan spat bitter sea water, rode a vast swell to its crest, spotted the lifeboat, and began swimming. Behind him, TinTin carefully lowered a half-inch steel wire hoist, attached to a multi-passenger rescue basket.

The little life raft, apparently damaged in the ditch and the hurried scramble for survival that followed it, was taking on water like a bath tub. Alan fought his way over, noting with half an eye that the sky looked odd, banded with swirling cloud, and almost bottle green.

He caught at the boat's rubber gunwale, spat more water, then reached for the rescue basket which Virgil's hair-fine precision placed right where it needed to be. (No small feat, considering that the pilot was doing alone what had been designed for two, back when Jeff and Brains had visualized a larger rescue force.)

The downed flight crew did their best to help, as Alan struggled to haul them out of the raft and into the basket, but they were groggy and slow, with little English. They got in his way more than anything else. Twice, Alan had to reprimand the co-pilot, who kept tugging feebly at the last guy in the boat, preventing proper attachment of his own safety harness. And meanwhile, the waves just kept right on getting bigger, some of them seeming to block the very sky. Thundering, crashing, shoving the basket away, then bringing it slamming back around like a crane's wrecking ball, the waves hammered at them repeatedly. But they were even bigger, further out.

Overhead, Virgil fought to maintain a stable hover in winds that alternately snatched and sheared, his head filled with calculations and music (Hall of the Mountain King, as it happened).

Thunderbird 2's impellers had carved a sort of tumbled depression in the water, which was full of dead and injured sea creatures, some of them really weird. There was stuff rising to the surface that Alan had never seen before, and didn't particularly want to make first-name contact with. Gordon might've been able to identify the toothy stuff, Alan just wanted it away.

At last, he got the Flight Engineer (Asian looking guy, least conscious of the three, with an eye swollen shut and what looked like a broken nose) strapped into the rescue basket.

Lifting a shaky arm, Alan climbed in and gave TinTin the hoist signal. The basket lifted, spinning crazily in midair. Beneath them, like the vanished cargo jet itself, the rubber raft swirled a bit, was upended by the casual malice of a rumbling wave, and went down. Swallowing hard, Alan clung to the wire, alternately staring up at TinTin's pale face, and out at the psychotic weather. What, he wondered, was going on?


	51. Chapter 51: Figures

_Okay, then; fifty-one it is. I've been awfully slow about reading and reviewing, much less writing, but promise to do better in the future. This bit takes place a little before Brains' mistake, and Alan's big adventure._

51

_Mars; Endurance Base-_

The meal wasn't a complete disaster. Hunger and ketchup made the stuff at least somewhat palatable, and Linda Bennett even conjured up a dessert, of sorts. The next day, 13 August, was her birthday, and she'd been saving a box of chocolate chip cookies and a bag of Gummy Bears in her personal food locker, to mark the occasion. Under the circumstances, she decided to celebrate early.

Everyone got three cookies, a handful of candy, a carton of chemically stabilized chocolate milk... and a vitamin tablet, because the physician in Linda couldn't allow all those sweets without some form of reparation. Immediately, a lively trade sprang up. Pete was more interested in the cookies than milk, while Roger craved only the red candies, and was willing to crumble his cookies, extract the chocolate bits, and trade them to the ladies for more red gummies.

John (who only cared for the pineapple and lemon flavors) did a complex bit of horse-trading that wound up with him holding most of the candy, then doling it back out, again. He might not be able to help 'cornering the market', but he liked his crewmates too well to cling to his winnings.

The unexpected party, plus news that _Kuiper_ had been declared 'go for launch', made the evening a success, after all. The idea of neighbors, months ahead though their 'move in day' might be, lifted everyone's spirits. If nothing else, the Europeans would probably grow as sick of their own rations as the Americans were of theirs, and be willing to swap. (John Tracy was unanimously selected to handle all future bartering sessions, and given spirited advance requests.)

Before breaking things up for the night, Pete McCord gave his crew their 'marching orders'.

"It's like this, people. I'm taking first watch, followed by the Blue Flight-Day team. Linda, you'll relieve me at 1100 hours, stand a three-hour shift, then wake Tracy to take your post. Tracy's on till 0230 Zulu Time, 0500 local, when he wakes the rest of us for the supply run. Tomorrow night, I'll take first shift, again, followed by the Red Flight-Day team; first Thorpe, then Dr. Kim. Same rotation schedule. Any questions?"

The sandy-haired mission commander looked briskly around at his crew, not really expecting objections. They'd become a close-knit group; almost more a family, now, than a flight crew.

"Good. Show time's bright and early tomorrow, so get plenty of rest, folks. It's going to be a busy day."

They lingered awhile, afterward, basking in the fine glow of dessert and companionship. Tonight had been rather pleasant. Tomorrow might be anything at all. The joking and talk outlived the food, and Pete finally had to _order _them all to bed.

John eventually peeled off his ridiculously tight suit-liner, but he still had trouble going to sleep. After writing a few lines in his leather journal, he switched off the bunk compartment light and closed his eyes, but couldn't find rest, with so much swirling around in his thoughts.

First, there was the equation. Seen closer, it wasn't just a line, or even a flat page, but a solid block of figures, with terms branching off in all three directions, plus, somehow, shrinking away 'inward'. The symbols were unfamiliar, but evoked something, nevertheless; excitement, curiosity, and awe. Not unlike the red world, itself.

Next, setting aside the alien equation, John focused on the problem of Five. Where the hell was she, and in what condition? He was a very good 'bare metal programmer', able to write code and operating systems for new, empty hardware. But, John didn't want a new computer, no matter what logic suggested. He wanted his friend.

With his eyes closed, hands behind his head, John poked about inside himself for any trace of the vanished quantum intelligence. After all, she'd been in there once before. Maybe...?

Repeatedly visualizing the query-command " /whois/ ", John searched ever deeper. He even tried a port scan, through his own mind, the ID chip and _Endurance, _herself Nothing. At some point, sorely worn and unsuccessful, John Tracy at last fell asleep.

In a dream, he wandered through a strange house, full of locked doors and shuttered windows. It wasn't frightening, just large, and terribly empty. Then he came to a room that troubled him, for there was something wrong with it. The far wall was in entirely the wrong place, making the oddly slanted room seem smaller on the inside than it had from without. There was a hidden space behind that wall. John drifted up to it, then away again, somehow half-aware that he mustn't ask... and feeling strangely relieved.

A hand on his shoulder and a quiet voice whispering,

"Rise and shine, Fella. You're on,"

...pulled him out of the weird house. Everything locked back into place. Mars... the noisy, vibrating ship... Dr. Bennett, waking him up to stand watch. She seemed impatient, frowning there in the dim, cluttered common area before his bunk. Perhaps he'd been hard to rouse.

John nodded, rubbing at his face with one hand, and flicking the light back on.

"Right. I'm awake, doctor. Give me a second to wash up."

He took more than a second, but not _much _more. In three minutes, John was out of bed, and had tidied his sleeping area to West Point specifications. Then, at the habitation module's head, he stood over the tiny, chromed sink, brushed his teeth and shaved, while Dr. Bennett cleaned and re-bandaged his facial wounds. She timed her swipes and pats almost perfectly, aiming under and around his shaving motions, despite having to reach up to do so.

Idly, John wondered whether this was what it was like to be married, this quiet dance in a small space. Didn't suppose he'd ever find out, though.

They spoke little, beyond generalities.

"It's been pretty... hold still a minute, while I put on the new bandages... calm," She told him, pulling John down a little as he rinsed the razor off in a spurt of pumped, recycled water.

"All quiet on the western front, so to speak," she added lightly, earning herself a sharp, searching glance.

"_What?" _She demanded, noting the sudden, odd look.

"Nothing," John shook his head. "Just... never much liked that book. Terrible ending. You were saying...?"

"It's been pretty dead. The wind picked up about an hour ago, probably because we're headed back into daylight, and the livestock's restless, but that's about it. The '_OK Corral _' remains secure."

He smiled at her.

"Works for me. About now 'dull' would be a nice break."

"Breakfast would be better," she smiled back, as they left the head. "If there's canned ham, powdered eggs and instant coffee in one of those cylinders, I'll be in heaven."

They spoke in whispers, so as not to disturb the sleeping others, but Linda seemed rather more interested in conversation than in seeking repose. Pointing to his tee shirt, which she'd noticed before, but never inquired about, the doctor asked,

"What does that mean?"

It was a black, short-sleeved shirt, with a statement across the front in white, formal logic symbols.

"Oh. Um... goes back to my college days." _Damn _Alan! He didn't get drunk _that _often! Did he?

"It's a Homer Simpson quote: _'Beer. Now, there's a temporary solution.' '_"

Linda snorted, shaking her head. Good looking he might be, with a truly jaw-dropping intellect, but John Tracy was also terribly _young, _with an emotional range that ran the gamut from A to C... if that far. On the bright side, he seemed better; more alert and _human._ The cuts were healing nicely, as well.

"Good night, Sunshine," she told him. "You've got the hot seat. Wake us up at 0230 ZT. See you."

Patting his arm, Linda went off to her berth. Moments later, full of strange questions, John headed forward.

He took his place in the pilot's seat, and ran a quick perimeter scan. As the doctor had indicated, everything seemed quiet, with only a rising wind and the swift, glittering passage of Phobos to divide the stillness. John watched, and thought awhile, then decided to call a friend.

Brains was still in the main lab complex, glasses askew, with a sleeve and button pattern imprinted on the right side of his face. He'd apparently fallen asleep at his work station, again.

"J- John!" The engineer seemed delighted to hear from him, though he'd called in officially only hours before.

"Y- you're up, ah... up late!"

"And you're awake to notice," the pilot responded. "What's new in the land of shining water? Have the others calmed down, yet?"

Brains shook his head, causing mussed brown hair to flop into his blue eyes.

"Th- they're still, ah... still quite w- worried, John. Your f- father wants t- to launch a r- rescue mission, with, ah... with himself aboard."

The pilot's eyes widened, slightly. Pushing the blond hair away from his face, he said, in some agitation,

"You're joking. _He _wants to come _here_. After _me?"_

Twenty minutes later,

"S- seems that way. N -not to w- worry, though," the engineer's thin shoulders slumped beneath his rumpled white shirt. "I'm, ah... I'm not M -making much headway w- with Thunderbird 7's engines. It may, ah... may b- be awhile."

John slouched in the seat, barely attending to Ike's rambling account of engine failure and design flaws. Minor details, after news like he'd just been handed. Dad. Coming _here._

The big question was, _why?_ To recoup his investment? Ensure the safety of his old friend, Pete McCord? Prove that, no matter what, John couldn't evade him? All of the above, probably.

Yet... Five had indicated that his father once risked his own life in some fubar-ed time travel scheme to save mom... getting Gennine, instead. Maybe, then, Jeff Tracy's object in all this _wasn't _just the money, or saving Pete, or even the power trip. Maybe (ridiculous on the face of it; his father couldn't stand him) he was acting to rescue an endangered son. Weird thought. He wasn't sure what to do with it, besides stare.

Brains required some sort of answer, though. He'd been babbling on about engines...

"Ike, you're going about this the wrong way. Instead of pushing the ship forward, try collapsing its wave function. Passengers and equipment, too. You'll have to write a hell of an algorithm, but just get her moving, figure the probability that the intact ship is where you want her to go, subtract all the other paths, and alter reality with an equation. And, _no,_ I haven't been drinking. It happens all the time in particle accelerators. Every time we up the power and do the math, we create another damn family of particles. Think about it."

Shrugging, John continued,

"You'll still need a heavy-duty power source, and a bitch of a computer, but it ought to work."

...While taking forever. By the time Brains figured things out, _Endurance_ ought to have completed her mission, and be halfway home. No rescue, no dad. Not until he'd decided what all this meant, anyway.

"Ike, it's late, and my watch is nearly done, so I'm signing off now. Talk to you later. Good luck with the drive system."

And then he killed the connection, liking his friends best in small doses. In the floodlit exterior gleam, the nearest probe seemed already half-buried in orange sand. Staring at it through the view screen, John decided that he'd repair them both; Gemini and Apollo.

He might have temporarily lost his companion, but he could still build and reprogram a couple of 'drones'. And, maybe, somewhere amid all the gears and lines of code, he'd figure out what to do next.


	52. Chapter 52: A Drop in the Bucket

_Late, as usual...me and Gordon, both. (And equally ungrammatical, probably) Thanks for the understanding comments about 51; I know it was a bit slow in spots, but there were some things that needed setting up. John's idea might or might not have been what Brains was trying, just as the presence behind the 'mental firewall' could be something other than Five. Anyway, thanks, Tikatu, Opal Girl, Darkhelmet, Agent Five, and Varda's linguistically-minded servant, for the reviews._

52

_Earlier; The European Union, Spain-_

The trouble with having two homes is that, no matter where you are, you're usually missing one of them. Gordon was happier to touch down in Madrid, to be loudly and boisterously welcomed by his teammate and best mate, than he could possibly express. All at once, most of the problems in his life reduced again to swimming faster, scoring more food, and finding ways to keep his coach happy (no easy task, considering how late he was for practice).

McMahon was standing by one of the outdoor pools, timing laps, when Gordon and Royce (who'd picked his young friend up from Barajas airport) approached him. The stocky swim coach stood there, clipboard in hand, whistle glinting between his tobacco-stained teeth, clearly vexed with his team's performance. Gordon had never heard the same 4-letter word applied quite so many times, in such varying parts of speech. If he hadn't been so nervous, the red-haired teenager would have applauded.

Royce muttered something about,

" 'Eading in t' change. Luck, Mate," and vanished.

"Bloody coward," Gordon growled, all at once wishing he was _any_place else.

The air was spicy and full of distant city sounds, the sun comforting-hot as he adjusted the set of his duffle bag and crossed the cement deck to join Coach McMahon.

Only half of the main pool was being used by the men's swim team, Gordon noted distractedly; the remainder had been co-opted by a group of agile beauties practicing their diving. Any other time, he would have been fascinated. Now, though...

His coach didn't turn or speak, didn't give the slightest sign that he even knew Gordon was there, except for the way his jaw muscles tautened and his teeth clamped down on the silver whistle. There was an actual grinding noise.

Gordon took a deep breath. As a blonde flower of a girl flipped and twisted from the high platform to the water's surface, entering with barely a ripple, he said,

"I'm back, Sir."

In two distinct moves, both of them slow, deliberate, and dripping with feigned shock, his coach removed the whistle and turned to regard Gordon. Performing a sarcastic double-take, he cried,

"Yer 'Ighness! What an unexpected pleasure! Through liftin' grass skirts f'r the time bein', are we?"

Gordon had heard the phrase _'withering glare' _before. Now he experienced it, feeling like some loathsome germ caught in a UV disinfector.

"Umm..." He began cogently, shifting his weight about. "There's not all that much skirt-liftin' t' be done there, Sir; not as such. More _chasin' _than anythin' else, and not terribly successful, at that. Thought I might do a bit of swimmin', instead."

McMahon scowled, jabbing hard at the swimmer's chest with a blunt, stubby forefinger.

"Y'r goin' t' _stay _in that bloody pool till you effin' _drown,_ Tracy."

Then, hurling aside the clipboard to gesture violently with both arms, McMahon added,

"World Championships dead ahead, gold medals in sight, an' you're off playin' King of th' Ruddy 'Ottentots! Well, I'm not 'aving it! This is damned well th' _last _time y' stroll in, late as y' please, and expect to keep y'r place on th' team! Now, get y'r gear stowed, an' get in th' damn water!"

He pivoted suddenly, whirling upon a pool that had gone very, very quiet.

"An' you lot might want t' think about... I dunno... ruddy _swimmin'!"_

All at once, the main pool boiled with violent splashing, like a school of sardines attacked by hungry sharks. Gordon lowered his head to hide a smile, then turned away and started for the locker room.

Five hours later, he was a good deal less amused. Gordon _thought_ he'd been training hard back on the island, but Kevin McMahon seemed determined to kill him. From about one in the afternoon (when he'd arrived at the pool complex) to past six-thirty that evening, all he did was swim wind-sprints, lung-busters, and one crushing set after another. Got yelled at, too; for dropping his elbows, and "kicking like a damn scuba diver!"

The sun set. High pole lights cut on, humming like bee hives and gilding the water's surface, and _still _they kept at it, occasionally doing slow warm-down laps, but never getting out of the pool. It was deeply exhausting, and it hurt. A lot.

On the other hand... the focus, the total concentration on a goal, felt really good. Once again, it was Gordon in the water, correcting his speed and form with help from an expletive-spewing wildman, while racing the clock. The wide black line shot by beneath him, the lane markers on either side bobbed in his wake, and cold, silky water seemed almost to toss him forward. Music, piped in through underwater microphones, did its bit to help Gordon push his own limits; smoother, further, _faster._

Only occasionally, at the end of the lane, would he glimpse another gasping, goggled face (Nathan's, say, or Vittorio's). They'd share a brief nod, a wordless _'what the hell is he trying to do?' _grimace, and be off; once more, alone in the water.

"Oh, right..." Gordon whuffed, when he finally crept out of the frigid pool, at nine-thirty that night,

"..._Now _I remember why I was in such a tearin' hurry t' get back! Missed all this ease an' luxury, I did."

"Shut y'r complainin'," the coach snapped back, calling him 'poofter', and a great many other, less polite names (but offering him a hand up, nevertheless).

"5:30 AM, suited up, and at y'r marks, th' lot of you."

The resultant chorus of groans was choked off by Coach McMahon's furious scowl.

"Just as soon as they begin 'anding out medals f'r marathon sleepin'," he announced, "I'll let you 'ave a lie-in. 'Ell! I'll tuck y' in m'self, an' serve warm, frothy milk in big mugs. In the mean time... _Get y'r lazy arses into th' locker room, an' change out! Break my curfew, an' I'll break y'r damn necks!"_

Ah, yes; good, clean fun and noble competition. Life, at its best... and he didn't even have school, now, as an excuse to cut morning practice. Gordon thought longingly of the island. Of trading stupid insults with Alan, palling about with TinTin, taking his dog out on the wave rider, and of rescues. Another world, now... 'far ago, and long away'.

Trudging into the locker room behind his equally numbed teammates, leaving dark, wet footprints on the concrete floor, Gordon visualized gold medals and hot showers (...and TinTin).

Later, though his raggedly sore body screamed for sleep, Gordon refused to turn in. He'd floored the other swimmers with spot-on 'surfer dude' imitations and a (heavily edited) account of his island doings, and now that the dorm was finally quiet, he just wanted to savor being back.

So, he pushed off the sheets and forced himself to rise. Then, maneuvering by moonlight, Gordon made his way to the room's sliding glass door, and stepped onto the balcony.

They were four storeys up, just high enough to skim the hot-blooded swirl of Madrid. Above, but still part. WorldGov had established temporary headquarters here, and things were still a little tumultuous in the wake of world events. Maybe, more than a little.

Leaving the snore-filled, smelly darkness behind, Gordon started to shut the glass door, only to have Royce (sleepy and puzzled) slip out to join him.

"Did y' not 'ear the old man? Five-thirty, Mate. That means up by four, _capiche?"_

Like the others, Royce tended to mix up and abuse the various dialects that rolledfromhis teammates. This time, Italian met the knife.

"I know..." Gordon sighed, lowering himself onto a plastic chair with gingerly care. Still sore, despite all the noisome ointment.

"So, what're y' _doin', _then? It's a touch thick in there, granted, but y'll catch y'r death, sleepin' on the back stoop."

The dark-skinned boy rubbed at his own bald head and yawned, at once amused and concerned. Gordon Tracy had always been a bit 'unusual', just more so since being adopted by his wealthy American cousins.

The younger lad shrugged, slightly embarrassed.

"I didn't want t' sleep, till it sinks in that I'm really_ here..._ So, I came out t' sit and listen. To everything; th' car horns, people arguin', th' music. It's Madrid, and it doesn't sound like any other city in th' world. Not even Sheffield, cultural Mecca though _that _is."

"Right," Royce grunted, tapping himself on the forehead. "Chlorine poisonin'. An' 'im so young, an' full of promise...!"

He pulled up a white plastic chair of his own, and promptly overflowed it, all tattooed, muscular limbs and tired grin.

"Don't try tellin' me y'r just out here absorbin' th' local color. There's somethin' else on the' back burner. Care t' spill it?"

Gordon frowned over at his best friend, and muttered something that sounded very like,

"Female... issues."

Royce probed further.

"The Chinoise?" (_Sheen-_wahz, he pronounced it. Badly.)

"Malay, actually. Her name's TinTin, an' she's..."

And then, in a cluttered, heart-felt rush, the words tumbled forth. How he felt, and how she _didn't._ Royce's eyebrows lifted. He was silent, a moment, then shook his head and tugged at one of his gold earrings, saying,

"You've got t' get y'rself another bird, Mate. One that performs on cue. Otherwise, y'll spend th' rest of th' season moonin' about on porticos 'n balconies; th' team laughingstock." He jerked a thumb at the bustling streets, four levels down. "This is Spain, Mate. If y' can't get some action _'ere, _y'r bloody pathetic."

Gordon looked over, once more, then away again. He didn't quite agree, but didn't fancy being laughed at, either. So...

"Perhaps y'r right."

"Course, I am," Royce affirmed, oozing an athlete's easy confidence. "...'Ave I _ever _steered y' wrong? Now, let's put about an' tie up f'r th' night, while we've still time t' sleep. Trouble settled?"

"What trouble?" Gordon scoffed, laughing as he got up (lying again, as he so often seemed to, these days).

Royce clapped him on the shoulder, and together, they went inside. But Gordon gazed back through the glass, his face illuminated by moonlight and neon, and longed for the one person he never had to lie to. His feelings for her hadn't changed, even if they _were_ stupid. At the time, innocently enough, he considered that just about his worst problem.


	53. Chapter 53: What Went Wrong

_(Hopefully) better late than never..._

53

_Madrid, Spain-_

But, on the whole, life went on. Whether training to the point of collapse on weights, the running track or pool, fighting to stay awake through dinner at the communal dining hall, or slipping curfew, Gordon and the others stayed busy.

He resisted the urge to email TinTin, knowing that she needed space and think-time in order to tackle Virgil... and not really knowing what to wish for; her happiness, or his own. He contacted Alan, though, discovering through his brother that Jeff Tracy was still on the Island, Scott was an over-bearing jerk, Virgil had quit smoking again ('cold turkey'), John hadn't updated his character on Alan's role-playing site in weeks... etc., etc.

And TinTin?

"Off doing chick-stuff, somewhere. Who cares, Bro? Back to business; what kind of character class do you want? Fermat's already a magic-user, but..."

And, so on.

He went to Mass, too, at the Almudena, feeling that his soul could stand a bit of cleansing, and about 3000 candles. Quite brought back memories of his stint as the world's worst altar boy, but settled something deep inside him. (And, after all, he'd promised his mum.)

The day came, as it had every year, when the European Men's Swim Team were scheduled for their 'shots'. A dodgy business, conducted quickly, and very much 'off the record'.

There was a clinic, in a tall, Moorish-style building deep within the city's old quarter, on a street narrow and cobbled with time-slicked stones. Crusading knights had ridden that twisting lane, Arab potentates, swaggering buccaneers and Spanish kings. Too tight a squeeze for most automobiles, the street still saw a fair amount of pedestrian traffic.

Late that morning, their bus dropped the team off at a busy roundabout, and the young men, their head coach and two assistants walked the rest of the way. Bit of a slog, but necessary, as _'El Clinico Santa Cruz' _specialized in no-questions-asked sports medicine.

Strolling along beside Royce and Erik, Gordon played 'spot the operative'. Perhaps the uniformed, smiling policeman on the corner had been placed there by his family, or the dark-haired young flower girl with the push-cart and the speaking eyes. One of his assistant coaches, maybe...? Or that muscular fellow repairing a bicycle? It might have been any of them.

At any rate, Gordon knew that his father's agents were out there, whether he pegged them correctly, or not. And, yes, he felt safer because of it. Until he reached the clinic, anyway.

It was a lovely, rain-scrubbed day, alive with the scent of flowers and drying stone, the sun just now putting his head out to settle this tiresome puddle business. Gordon had been to that clinic, walked up the broad stairs and through the big wooden doors literally _dozens _of times before. But, on this occasion, stepping into cool, musty shade as a line of fellow athletes filed slowly into the examination room, Gordon suddenly panicked.

He could see, through the open hall door, other young men being weighed, scanned and 'inoculated'. Gene doping. He'd had the very same procedure done to him from the age of ten, receiving without complaint a yearly hypodermic load of altered viruses meant to deliver a targeted 'message'. Arriving at their destination, the viral delivery system would insert genes coding for greater muscle mass and endurance, converting those with a certain predisposition into virtual 'supermen'.

Gordon froze in the hallway, beneath a gilt-framed portrait of Queen Isabella Maria. His heart was pounding, and his breath rattled in his chest like he'd contracted pneumonia.

Royce nearly collided with him, caught out by Gordon's sudden stop. Erik stumbled, muttering something truly blistering in Swedish and French, both (he'd turned his ankle recently, and was still a little sore).

"Vad en...?" The husky blond demanded, windmilling to regain his balance on the colorfully tiled floor. Royce saved Erik another painful spill by seizing his near arm.

"Bloody 'ell, Gordon! Give a bloke some warnin', before you 'it th' damn brakes, won't you?"

Then, noting his friend's sudden pallor,

"G' wan, Petersen. I got this."

Erik adjusted the wrapping on his left ankle, resuming his usual good humor. With his blond crewcut and bony face, he looked like a Swedish special forces officer, but was actually rather pleasant, once you got to know him.

"Fine and bon, Royce, but den coach ar just in the point of arrival, so... how ar they saying this in Spanish...? _Apurate!" _

Royce waved his teammate on, glancing exasperatedly at Gordon. His red-haired young friend stood as securely rooted to the spot as though bolted there.

"Oy, Tracy; enough muckin' about, lad. Erik's right. If 'imself finds you balkin' like this, 'e'll..."

But Gordon shook his head, saying,

"I can't go in there."

Other athletes slumped about the brightly-lit examination room with glum resignation, being measured, prodded and injected, same as always. Same anatomy and VD posters, same glass-fronted cabinets, same technicians. Perfectly safe.

Somehow, though, Gordon _knew _that if he went inside, the door would slam shut and the windows would disappear, and he'd be trapped. There would be questions he fought hard not to answer, even when...

Not taking his gaze from the room, with its business-like doctors and rattling instruments, Gordon backed toward the wide outer doors. Halfway down the stairs, in the rising, steamy heat, he could breathe again. Royce was there, too, looking decidedly cross.

"...growin' a wretched conscience _now,_ of all times, are you? _Everyone _does it. Th' Yanks, th' Asians, an', as far as th' ruddy Ozzies... they started this mess in th' first place, didn't they? It's not bloody cheatin', if _everybody _does it, mate. Think of it as a boost. Vitamins-plus, so t' speak."

Gordon stared at his taller friend as though Royce had just stepped off an alien space ship, demanding quality time with the King. No communication possible. He couldn't explain the bubble of acid panic that had made him want to heaver, right there in the damn hall.

Their coach was coming up the stairs now, scowling darkly. Running a broad hand across his bristly, salt-and-pepper hair, McMahon snapped,

"An' just what th' 'ell are you two at? There's not time f'r a blasted afternoon tea, gents!"

Tapping a red ink pen against his omnipresent clipboard (he'd never yet made the technological leap to the newer, electronic data boards), the coach added,

"_Schedule!_ P'raps y've 'eard of it? That daft little time jobber that precedes trainin' an' competition? Right. And, whilst you pair are takin' th' air and 'avin y'rselves a nice little chat, I'm tryin' t' run a team, an' stay outta th' bloody mental 'ospital!"

Trapped, again; with no way to explain, or to ask for help. He _had _to go inside... but couldn't bring himself to do so. Torn, under brutal pressure, Gordon went suddenly blank and empty, as he had once before, on the Island.

Fortunately, his condition did not go completely unnoticed. Transmitted through the ID chip to one who'd been set to watch him, Gordon's increased heart rate and stress signals attracted almost instant attention.

Security cameras turned smoothly about, shifting their focus from sun-lit, tree-lined street to the graceful staircase, and the analog lifeforms that stood there. Error. Although the two individuals nearest Gordon Tracy were quickly identified and classed as non-inimical, and no other obvious hazards were present, 4.0 was clearly experiencing distress; nature and source unknown.

Five consulted pre-existing commands, then re-queried the chip. And again, all physical indicators pointed to imminent system failure.

'_Protect Gordon. Guard from harm, and, if necessary, redirect him,' _John Tracy had input. There seemed no dangers against which to protect or guard 4.0, so she focused instead on redirection, interpreting John Tracy's command in the broadest sense possible.

The ID chip could be regarded as an open port, one without a firewall or internal defense system. As her analog companion would put it,

'_Practically an engraved invitation.'_

Inserting herself, Five 'hacked' another human system, this one perilously close to crashing. As the higher-functioning portions of Gordon Tracy's buggy, fragmented software shut themselves down, a certain quantum computer attempted to take over, and do a bit of patching.


	54. Chapter 54: In Further News

_By way of explanation (things being clearer in my head than they are on paper) all this is happening just ahead of, to concurrently with, the arrival on Mars. Should have woven it in, but instead am 'catching up' the other story lines now. Thanks for the reviews, which I promise to return in kind, and soon. Been a very weird month..._

54

Unanticipated difficulties arose. Gordon Tracy was not a computer. He had no hard drive to reformat; no code to patch. Just organic 'wet-ware' featuring 3-D wiring contacts more numerous than stars and worlds in all the observable heavens. Worse still, his logic and memory systems were partly electrical in nature, the rest chemical and quantum. It was far removed from her own system of coherent sodium atoms and super-cooled spintronics; slower, but with shades of nuance and emotion Five couldn't begin to approach without a human interface. Nor did the confusion end there.

Lacking John Tracy's rigid security protocols, 4.0 had allowed an unchecked chemical wave to do virus-like damage to internal data storage. Nevertheless, Five did what she could.

She certainly had precedent. Once, an 8-year old Gordon had been awakened by his mum in the dark hours before morning. Gathering him up in his blanket by the dim glow of the night-light, she'd started for the half-open bedroom door. He'd wakened just a bit, enough to shift and mumble in her slender arms. Desperately tense, Kathleen had attempted to shush her young son.

"Hush, Luv. Very quiet, now; we're leavin'."

Blurry and stuporous, he'd objected,

"But, Mummy... what about school?"

There had already been so many.

"We'll find you another one, Little Man," she whispered back, no more than a nervous silhouette and a choking-tight clutch. "Tomorrow, or the next day; m' word on it. Hush, now."

Out of the flat, then; through the main door, and on to the damp curb, where a car was parked, engine idling, headlamps off. He'd been placed in the back seat, buckled in, and told with a soft kiss to go back to sleep.

Too familiar with the routine to complain, he'd nodded off again, knowing that she'd drive whilst he slept, and that morning would find them somewhere new, and safer.

_Spain, real time, some days later:_

His teammates and coaches soon noticed a change in behavior. Gordon seemed much quieter, less prone to mischief and rebellion than usual. They put it down variously to jet lag, or the general 'flu-ish-ness' associated with gene-doping shots... except that the effects didn't seem to ebb.

Gordon's swimming and concentration improved tremendously. After viewing a number of recordings, and hearing McMahon detail all of the many deficiencies in his form, he hit the pool, and after two laps corrected each and every flaw. His times dropped, and so did the jaws.

His personality all but vanished, however, as did his interest in females, and ability to grasp the point of a joke. Just at the moment, nothing much was funny, and nothing seemed to matter but meeting his coach's expectations. McMahon was deeply gratified, and rather concerned.

Later that week, the men's swim team gathered with other European athletes in the main auditorium, to watch the first manned landing on Mars. They had more than a casual interest in the matter, as the European Union had a mission of their own on the launch pad, and Gordon Tracy's brother, John, was aboard the American ship; its pilot, in fact.

As WNN cut back and forth to Cindy Taylor in Houston, Poul Clarke on the International Moon Station, and a panel of space program experts in the studio, the massed coaches and athletes cast frequent, furtive glances at Gordon. The red-haired teenager sat still and quiet during the entry blackout, seemingly unconcerned by the crew's long silence.

Talking heads and reporters explained in detail how speed and super-heated gases interfered with communications, while an on-screen display ticked off the minutes. Finally, Commander McCord responded to NASA's hail, setting off cheers and celebrations the world over. WNN: _Espana_ cut to an interview with Captain Irina Poriskova, _Kuiper's_ mission commander.

The straw-haired, raw-boned Russian laughed aloud, congratulating NASA, and vowing that the European Space Agency would soon join their American comrades for phase two of the planned Mars colony.

"This is historic moment for all humankind, everywhere," she said proudly, grey eyes beaming through genuine, joyful tears. "On all three worlds that we have set our mark, Earth, Moon and Mars, there is no stranger now, no enemy. All have won 'space race' this day. And, to Commander McCord, I say; 'Piotr, I am very much owing to you that drink'!"

Irina Poriskova wasn't a conventionally pretty woman, or a young one, either, but warmth, charm and ease of command had made her extremely popular, even so. Like Pete, she had loads of personality and a certain fondness for alcohol.

Coverage shifted back and forth, but almost no one left the cavernous auditorium, not wishing to miss the first 'Mars walk'. With 20-minute transmission delays, there was a lot of dead air to fill, so experts and relatives were dredged up from everywhere, and common folk interviewed from Staten Island to Kinshasa. It was a giant, world-wide party, one Gordon Tracy seemed utterly oblivious of. Sitting in the front row, flanked by Royce Fellows and Coach McMahon, he was as calm and unmoved as though watching another tape of his own swimming performance.

His coach leaned over slightly, about an hour into the assembly, and murmured in a gravely, smoke-roughened voice,

"There's no one 'll think less o' you f'r crackin' a smile, lad... That bein' y'r brother up there, an' all."

Gordon turned his head to regard Kevin McMahon, something swift and unnameable flickering through his hazel eyes. He smiled once, saying,

"Hysterical joy often follows a period of uncertainty, and expressions of relief and happiness are expected. The reminder is appreciated."

Then, he gave his startled coach a very quick, rough embrace. McMahon pulled free and reached for his antacid tablets (never far away), wondering just how much odd behavior he was willing to tolerate in return for record-setting swim times. Medal count, or mental health?

_Medals,_ he decided.

Swallowing three of the chalky, soothing tablets, McMahon turned his attention back to the view screen and swore off personal observations.

Royce was nowhere near as sanguine, though, nor Alan Tracy, either. Best friends and brothers were a lot less easy to fool.

_Washington, D.C., a smallunderground survival bunker-_

The senator might have hated technology, but he was wise enough to know that, applied properly, it contained the seeds of its own destruction. He was also wise enough to locate someone capable of manipulating the insidious tech; in this case, a very good, very expensive hacker.

The fellow was thin, brown-haired and pasty, with nervous gestures and a rather secretive, coded manner of speaking. His internet screen name (the one he admitted to, anyway) was 'Shr3ddr'.

He'd been hired by go-betweens, given encrypted orders from sources that changed every time. Very mysterious, and lucrative, too... if he could just come up with the required data.

His hidden employer needed a name, and identity. He (or she) wanted the leader of International Rescue, and was willing to pay handsomely for any information Shr3ddr could dig up. Only trouble was... there didn't seem to _be _any. One avenue after another was explored. Sendmail, FTP, trace routes, web searches and 'pinging'... he tried them all, running into one brick firewall after another. IR's system administrator was damn good, whoever he was. Finally, after the third sleepless night spent hunched over a greenish-pale computer screen, Shr3dder punched in a query that got a response, a swift and savage port scan.

Interesting. He backed off a bit, switched boxes, and tried another tack. This time, something seized his computer. A total systems crash occurred, hard drive frying beyond hope of repair. The screen went black, and then a single word appeared, in blinking white letters:_ ">Stop"._

Angry now, the hacker tried hitting a few keys, mumbling curses under his sour breath. The word disappeared, only to be replaced by a single, chilling question.

_">Would you like to take this outside?"_

It was several seconds before Shr3ddr remembered to breathe. He'd been an MIT student, himself, but once, long ago, he'd gotten on a Princeton chat site and started messing around a little. Nothing serious, as he'd thought, just a few thousand repetitive emails and suggestions to some of the female screen names. One of them must have had a boyfriend, though, because he'd been hit with exactly the same warning sequence. Back then, he'd blown it off, even returned the challenge. But, _outside_ turned out to be very serious, indeed. Somehow, a WorldGov security satellite had 'misfired', lasering a giant hole through his (suddenly uninsured) car. Other stuff, information about his many traffic violations and computerized grade altering scams had then become public knowledge. In effect, he'd been ruined; forced to leave school.

Shr3ddr sat back in the cramped, dark little survival bunker, thinking furiously. Same guy, _had _to be. Princeton... Around 2061... Male student, for certain... in the math, computer or science department...

Almost invisible in sudden near-blackness, with the ice-white query reflecting from the lenses of his round glasses, the hacker nodded to himself.

"You've just made your first mistake, friend."

With any luck at all, it would also prove to be the last.


	55. Chapter 55: Flip Mode

_Still experiencing random technical difficulties, this time with the seemingly simple act of logging in. Um... anyway, here it is, FWIW, and many thanks for the feedback, which is always instructive and gratefully received. These last few bits catch the various threads up to each other. Almost done._

55

_Madrid-_

There was a distinct difference, Five discovered, between 'knowing' a thing, and 'feeling' it. A system might, for example, search and accumulate data points relating to the compound H20. Water. But it was another matter entirely to hang chest deep, one hand clamped to the gritty-hot pool wall, waiting, with utter focus, for the signal to explode into a powerful backstroke. Whatever the arrangement of molecules and thermal energy, the physical sensations of water sliding past skin, sharp chlorine, bright sunlight and glittering spray somehow added up to far more than the sum of their parts.

Just as, seen through John Tracy, space was more than a boiling froth of virtual particles, and the stars more than thermonuclear furnaces, so, to Gordon Tracy, pool, lake and ocean were not just _wet_. They were the arena in which 4.0 truly excelled, and felt safest.

Five discovered that, although he did not express the emotion aloud, and generally passed the physical symbols of his prowess ( 'medals') to TinTin Kyrano, he was deeply proud of each successful procedure. That much, at least, required no alteration... excepting the chemical surges associated with the Kyrano version. Gordon Tracy's interactions with her resulted in constant, physical chaos. Direct intervention was clearly warranted.

But, the true damage stemmed from another source, entirely. There was data, only partially retrievable now, that was slowly corrupting nearby files, rendering 4.0 erratic and 'glitchy'. An earlier attempt at reprogramming( Kyrano 1.0, again) had only worsened matters, leaving Gordon Tracy with crippling responses to memory files he could no longer fully access.

So, Five set to work at once, de-bugging and clearing up the mess, and learning a great deal about organic systems in the process.

As for Gordon, all that he afterward recalled was a sort of conversation, with someone even more faceless and impartial than a priest at confession. The mysterious 'person' listened quietly as the matter unspooled, seeming almost to relive it all with him.

The hardest part to deal with was not the accident, or the kidnap, either... It was the terrible fact that, to avoid what his captors had threatened him with, he'd finally begun to tell them things. Little stuff, and mostly lies, but what troubled Gordon was the knowledge that he'd broken down and betrayed his brothers. Admitting this to someone, he felt a fearful weight begin to dissolve. But,

If Alan hadn't appeared...

_He had._

If his own weakness were revealed to the others...

_No need, and a serious misinterpretation of events; in the face of such skillfully applied torment and threat, any organic being would have responded similarly._

His brothers had trusted him, brought him back into the family...

_And he'd done his best, right to the end, to repay that faith by securely encrypting their data._ _Alone and afraid, he still had fought with every available resource, and that mattered more than three false admissions, dragged out of him by drugs, threats and beating._

They didn't have to find out, though... did they?

_Again, unnecessary. Beyond the current listener, and the distant over-system to which John Tracy input his help commands, there was no one else that would, or need be, informed. The files were secure._

And that turned out to be a considerable relief. The past was there, and always would be, but it no longer had the power to destroy. He was safe, and so was his family. Out of reach, now, and closely warded.

For Five, it was a culmination, of sorts. John Tracy had initially created and programmed her to locate Gordon. This function had failed because the younger Tracy wasn't merely lost, but actively being hidden, and her then-primitive systems (little more than a beige toaster, she'd been)were unable to penetrate his defenses. Yet, errors of any sort, inability to perform her programmed tasks, were intolerable to Five.

John Tracy's was the first face she'd scanned. His voice, the first she'd 'heard'. He'd input her primary commands, and his desired purpose had failed in the execution, due to the processing limits of his creation.

Now, in a sense, her main function had been completed. John Tracy would experience satisfaction, and their interface would surely strengthen. Here, in this mass of organic molecules and shifting electrical fog, it was possible for a sentient computer to feel excitement, to anticipate her creator's pleased response. To plan further.

For the massed folk in the Madrid auditorium, this tumult and victory were completely invisible. There was too much going on elsewhere for such small matters to register.

The Mars walk, the planting of the American flag, Commander McCord's rollicking commentary... These were historic events, and they held most of the world spellbound.

_Wharton-_

The denizens of a certain pricey New York boarding school (the younger grades, at least) were given snippets and video clips, rather than full coverage, but even they felt the power of the moment.

Fermat Hackenbacker contained himself, but only just. Except for the stutter and shyness, his father wasn't a terribly excitable man, and Fermat had always tried very hard to live up to that standard. Almost nine years old now, and a certified genius, he was far better socialized than John had been. Had friends, even.

In AP social studies class that day, Fermat secretly text messaged Alan while half listening to occasional mission updates, and waiting impatiently for John's call-in.

_Everything, _he'd made the astronaut promise, _tell me everything; with pictures, a web-log and a Mars rock and..._

Well, perhaps he was just a _little _more excitable than Brains. Not that his 'Junior Ivy League' surroundings encouraged excess.Rather, it was a beautiful, secure hothouse for privileged boys.

Warm, late-summer sunshine slanting in through tall windows made the room's wooden floor and varnished desk-tops glow, gilding starched white shirts, red ties and navy blazers, lighting up many sets of glasses and shiny metal braces. Room 423 held, not a group of students, but a disciplined work-in-progress, complete with scaffolding.

Outside, the rolling green lawns were all but deserted. The older boys and their instructors were gathered in the main concert hall, silently watching WNN's mission telecast.

Young Fermat (not his actual name, but with John's help, the 'Hackenbacker' lineage had been altered all the way back to Ellis Island) was quite busy. In a few short minutes he passed a note to Sam (_No, _he hadn't heard anything new, and leave him alone about it, for Heaven's sake!), and returned Alan's latest message (_Yes,_ he'd heard there were 'rings around Uranus'. Ha, very ha). Then, he answered question 26... to which the correct response was almost certainly not _'Endurance'_.

The academy boys were required to complete all classwork in pen, to foster accuracy and elegant handwriting. No erasures, no laptops, just pride and precision.

Sighing, Fermat lined delicately through his distracted answer to: _'List three underlying causes of the English Civil War, providing dates, personae and historical details.'_

English civil war... Roundheads, cavaliers, dour and blood-stained Oliver Cromwell versus the dashing Prince Rupert of the Rhine...

Fermat blinked at the stubbornly blank lines. Usually, world history enthralled the boy. Today, though, he was finding it difficult to concentrate. _Especially _with Sam Nakamura and Daniel Solomon grimacing and gesturing at him behind Miss Wilde's slim back. Daniel seemed about to explode. Not that Fermat blamed him.

Then his juiced-up cell phone went off, and the boy received a very strange message. It was John Tracy, grim face lit by the bleached-pink Martian sky.

"John!" Fermat blurted out, forgetting schoolwork, teacher and friends in all the excitement. Not for long. Miss Wilde pivoted almost at once, marker and demerit card in hand. Fermat peered up at her with angelic blue eyes, rapidly sifting through a pile of possible excuses. Aloud, he muttered, (as though he hadn't been waiting all day for just such a call),

"But, I'm in... in class, John. We're about to... okay."

The young teacher was shaking her blonde head, making _'go on, it's all right!' _gestures and whispering hurried permission. The others were already on their feet and crowding 'round.

"N... never mind," Fermat told his distant friend, "Ms. Wilde says a... a call from Mars is more important than... than social studies." Even the English civil war.

John's response was short and sharp.

"I'll thank her, later. Listen, K..."

_Kurt, _he'd almost called the boy, a name never used in public. Something was seriously wrong.

"Fermat, you know that 'letter' your dad wrote?" John's voice was icy calm, but rushed, his violet eyes hard.

Fermat began to feel the first stirrings of panic. 'The letter' was _Black Death,_ the most powerful and destructive worm ever written. Sensing genuine trouble, no one else moved, or spoke; not even Miss Wilde, who entertained a lively crush on John and Roger, both.

"Yes, John," Fermat replied, very quietly. The astronaut seemed to steel himself, then plunged on.

"Drop... drop it in the mail... Ten seconds after I cut comm."

He couldn't be serious. _Black Death _was specifically designed to bring down Thunderbird 5's computer system, in the event that John ever lost control of her. She'd be destroyed, like he would, if someone poured hydrocyanic acid in his chocolate milk. Aghast, Fermat protested.

"But..."

"_Post the letter."_

Apparently, John was deadly serious. There was a brief flicker of farewell in the astronaut's eyes, and then the phone's little screen went dark. Gone terribly cold inside, torn by doubt and confusion, Fermat Hackenbacker nevertheless did as he'd been told. He burst from the classroom and out to a hall lavatory, followed closely by Sam and Daniel. Then, while his confused friends stood watch at the stall door, Fermat pulled forth a PDA and began tapping out commands.

_Houston-_

Back in Texas, at the Johnson Space Center, the quarantined press corps stared at silent wall screens of their own. Comm had been lost, as suddenly and inexplicably as if _Endurance _had ceased to exist. All at once Mars, satellites, probes, spaceship and all, had winked out on them. Stations all over the world immediately cut to commercial breaks, or their equally startled 'experts'.

At first, no one in the press room did much more than mutter occasional curses and fiddle with their makeup and equipment. Then Leeza Makepeace, reporting for a CBS local affiliate, tossed her head and yawned.

"Well," she drawled, covering her microphone, "Look at the bright side, folks. A little disaster's always good for the numbers. The World Unity Center thing got us a good ratings spike, and this ought to, as well."

Had she been able to move, in that first hot, furious moment, Cindy Taylor would have killed the other newswoman.

"You absolute, heartless _bitch,"_ she snarled, ripping off her own microphone and hurling it onto a convenient desk. Other reporters and camera crews backed slowly away from the two women, who seemed likely to come to blows. No one wanted to get caught in the middle. Cindy was physically smaller, but could hold her own in a brawl, as more than one Christmas party had proven.

"Those are _people _up there!" She raged, "They've got families, dammit!"

...And two years ago, Cindy knew, she wouldn't have given a damn. But one of those astronauts was Scott's brother, John, and things had changed. Or _she _had. Leeza eyed her, then gave a 'whatever' sort of snort, and turned slightly away. Not so far that she couldn't spot a lunge, though.

Suddenly nauseated by the cramped, windowless room full of self-absorbed bastards, Cindy shook her head. Dark hair flopped into her eyes, several long strands snagging in her heavy, TV mascara.

_That's me, _she thought disgustedly._ All paint and no soul, just like all the rest._

At the quietly humming WNN camera she snapped,

"Jake, I quit. I mean it, this time. You can send my final check wherever you like. To hell, for all I care. I'm going home!"

Reaching for hand bag and cell phone, Cindy tore off her press pass and stalked from the room, leaving behind nothing but eye-rolling indifference. After all, what was one less prima donna?

_Underground survival bunker, Washington, D.C.-_

He was getting closer. Bit by bit, one small query at a time, Shr3ddr was drawing nearer to his goal, International Rescue's computer system. The trick, as always, was to find a less secure side route. In this case, as his bashful employer wanted information on IR's leader, Shr3ddr had chosen to first locate a lesser target; the organization's computer expert. After all, in a manner of speaking, they'd already met, and Shr3ddr owed the guy. Very, _very _much, he owed him.

Over a carton of spicy Kung Pao chicken, the hacker considered what his cautious probes and trace-routes had so far turned up.

_First: _the IR system operator seemed to have gotten distracted, recently. FBI knocking down the door, maybe?

_Second:_ a quiet little search for old hacks and exploits using his opponent's MO led back to Princeton, again.

_Third: _rumors.

There'd been a loose group of science and engineering students who had gotten into some major stuff, back in the early 2060s. _Serious _cracks. No 'Script Kiddies' there! They'd apparently been lured in by a computer science instructor currently working for Interpol. The fellow's internet handle was '_Racer X'_, and the Feds had finally just hired him, to keep the guy from bringing entire systems to their knees. Must've cut himself a pretty sweet, no-talk deal, Shr3ddr figured, because the other members of the group remained unaccounted for... so far. He'd been able to dredge up a few handles, though, among them _'D-Day', 'Kryptoni3n', 'Backslash', 'Krackr' and 'Anarchick'. _

Smiling to himself, the hacker forked up a last mouthful of fiery chicken, swept the carton and empty soda cans off his desk top, and began hitting keys. His victim was out there, clueless and unafraid. All Shr3ddr need do was connect an identity to the right handle... and that was a mere matter of patience, caution and research. Then, on through the sysop to IR itself, and the biggest paycheck of Shr3ddr's life.


	56. Chapter 56: Hidden

_Recently switched operating systems, so everything's messed up, but managing, anyhow... )_

55

In the long, silent hours of the Martian night, when folk on Earth had nothing to cling to but prayer and static images, Fermat Hackenbacker called home, Jeff Tracy came to a decision, and Gordon was abruptly released. He did not recover immediately, though, having for many days afterward the mental equivalent of a head cold. Numbed and compliant, he followed his scheduled round of swim meets and training, showing very little reaction when _Endurance_ once again made contact, and her crew proved to be safe.

If anything, he seemed slightly depressed, despite setting a new record in the men's 100-meter free style at the Paris finals.

On the bus ride home, the rest of the team (who'd dominated the competition) jokingly accused him of bribing officials, but Gordon didn't laugh. The true reason for his stunning performance, that he'd temporarily been 'under new management', went completely unguessed, even by him. All Gordon knew was that he felt rather abandoned, and couldn't really account for the last few weeks. (Hoped he hadn't done anything stupid...)

Back in Madrid that afternoon, he begged off the post-meet victory party to return to the pool. For once, he had the water nearly to himself, and was in the mood for about a thousand ferocious laps. Royce Fellows tried to remain, as well, meaning to have a serious private talk with his red-haired younger friend, but their coach interrupted.

On the bright-hot pool deck, hands in his pockets and craggy face grim, Kevin McMahon jerked his head at the locker room door.

"Get on with you, Fellows. I'll 'andle this."

Royce hesitated, glancing at Gordon, who'd shifted on the near turn from butterfly to backstroke.

_Bloody hell, _but he'd got fast; not a wasted nor false move anywhere. Like a damn _machine!_ The tall young man shifted his gaze again, looking down at their stout, grizzled coach. Royce didn't like to say it, but he had to question McMahon's priorities. This newer, faster, more obedient Gordon Tracy was tearing up the competition, and making the coach look awfully good. To hell with the reasons, eh?

"Sir, if I might just..."

"I _said, _I'll 'andle it. Move along."

A light breeze whispered past them, equal parts exhaust fumes, chlorine and orange blossoms. Royce shifted his stance a bit. Like many athletes, he was hard-wired in the 'yes, Sir' position, and open rebellion came very, very hard. The earrings, tattoos and gold teeth were a way of setting himself _apart,_ not _against._

Dark eyes narrowed slightly in the wind and sun, Royce tried again; respectfully.

"Sir, 'ee's not been 'imself, of late, and if I might..."

He got cut off, again.

"Side effects," McMahon announced forcefully, as though he'd settled matters. Then, all but propelling Royce back to the building, "Pain meds, an' all that rubbish. It's all in 'and, I assure you. Now, off y' go.. an' mind th' curfew. 8:00 tonight; no spirits, no fightin', and no females. Right, then. 'Ave fun. There's a good lad."

His broad hand pushed Royce, still protesting, through the doors and into the locker rooms. Then, with Fellows disposed of, the coach turned his attention back to his most successful, and perplexing, swimmer. Under a gem-like, clear blue sky, Kevin McMahon stumped back over to the outdoor pool.

Gordon had at last paused to rest, hanging at the lane end with his arms folded upon the pool wall, chin resting on his rapidly drying forearms. He wore a black, 'shark skin' fast suit and a pair of tinted goggles, which he pushed off his face at McMahon's approach.

"Tracy," the coach began, squatting down between starting blocks to talk with the boy (not without difficulty- the old bones weren't all they'd used to be).

"...been meanin' t' talk with you, lad."

Gordon looked up, his hazel eyes strangely... If McMahon hadn't known better, he'd have said the young swimmer appeared rather lost, as though he'd been deposited by the side of the road with two quid and a change of underwear. Into that haunted emptiness, the coach said,

"Y've been workin' mighty 'ard, these last few weeks, there's no denyin' it... an' it seems t' me that y'r wantin' a bit of a rest. Y'll not get me t' repeat this publicly, Tracy, but there _is_ a such thing as over-trainin' , even with all them extra blood cells." (Another 'gift' from modern medical science.)

When Gordon did not immediately respond, his coach blundered on.

"What I'm sayin'... _orderin' _, rather, is this: take th' rest of th' week off. Mind curfew, but, f'r th' rest of it... take some time t' re-center. Y'll come back a better swimmer f'r it, _trust _me."

One didn't go far in coaching without being something of a psychologist, as well. McMahon had decided that the problem was stress, for which he prescribed a nice, relaxing holiday. Tracy seemed less than enthused, but nodded his red head.

"Yes, sir... thank you." Quiet and subdued, perhaps, but more himself than he'd been in weeks.

McMahon risked a smile, clapping a gnarled hand to the boy's muscular, sun-burnt shoulder.

"Right. Out of th' pool with you, then. Find y'rself a senorita and a round of pints. I'll be waitin' up, with th' headache pills."

Gordon returned the smile, a little lop-lopsidedly, then accepted a hand up, wondering how and when aliens had possessed his coach.

New York State-

There was an intricate network of steam tunnels beneath the dorms and school buildings of Wharton Private Academy for Young Men, relic of a time before modern central heating. Generations of daring students had explored these forgotten byways, establishing the odd clubhouse or treasure hoard in its various branches and nooks.

The walls and cracked floors were composed of musty concrete, the low ceilings nearly invisible behind insulated steam pipes and old wiring. Terribly eerie and exciting, clearly the sort of place where boys of a certain age might gather in small numbers to shine flashlights below their chins and speak together in hollow voices.

Fermat, Sam and Daniel had picked the rusted locks, pushed through a metal door marked 'keep out', choosing a dog-legged tunnel between cafeteria and library for their hideout. Dusty and cramped, it was, but as Daniel put it, in his deepest and most timbre-y voice: _a dark place, for dark business. _Or, at least for the free hour before lights out.

"So..." Sam Nakamura was saying, as he finished a packet of peanut butter crackers, "There's been some sort of computer malfunction? Aboard the Mars Lander?"

Like Fermat and Daniel Solomon, Sam was extremely intelligent, with a no-nonsense, cut-to-the-bone attitude that made most adults deeply uncomfortable. He was slighter, even, than Fermat, but confident, and prone to acerbic bossiness.

"I th... think so, yes." Fermat told his two friends. The other boy, a pudgy, dishwater blond with mischievous brown eyes, cut in at once. Leaning forward, Daniel crumpled his chocolate milk carton.

"Don't they have a boot disk?" he demanded, now juggling the carton from hand to hand. "What's the operating system? And didn't you say Tracy's a programmer? What's his damage? Can't he handle a few bugs? 'Cause I..."

Fermat held both hands up to stem the flood of words.

"D- Daniel... wait. It's... not... not that... simple."

"How do you mean?" Sam snapped, drawing Euler's beta function on the floor at their feet with a bit of red ocher, caveman-fashion. Mere conversation wasn't quite enough to keep him busy.

"I mean... that... that it's n- not... that sort of c- computer. It's a ... a 'her', for one thing. J- John designed her... a l- long time... ago; wrote the programming language, a- and... and everything."

"Which version?" (Daniel, again) "Perl? Python? Lisp? Black Cat? D? Ruby-2? Still shouldn't be overly difficult. Not if you know what you're doing. I can code in Ruby, Lisp and D, myself. Plus Fortran. Kid stuff."

Fermat raked a hand through his straight brown hair, blinking in frustration. Sometimes, getting a word in edgewise, or any other kind of way, was darn near impossible.

_"No."_

"Zip it, Daniel," Sam ordered, shaking his head. "Let the man talk."

Fermat shot his small friend a deeply grateful look, then soldiered on.

"The... language is... unique. Only John, m- my dad, me... a- and... a girl s- somewhere... know how to... to c- code it. It's called 'Steel'. At... at any r- rate, the l- language is powerful, and s- so... so is the computer. V- very abstract, fast and... and f- fully orthogonal."

And, until a few hours ago, very approachable. Five appeared not to be listening, though, nor allowing Fermat to input queries. The folks back home were reacting like she'd gone 'bad', but Fermat had a really weird feeling that something else had happened. That, wounded and confused by his actions (and worst of all, John's), she'd gone into hiding.

Sam frowned.

"Fermat, I've hacked NASA and downloaded the lander's technical specs, and I don't recall seeing anything like that, in there. The on board system's kind of pathetic, actually."

Fermat took a deep breath. Next to Alan, these were his very best friends. Some day soon, they intended to establish a software design company together, and take over the world. FSD... or DFS...SDF, maybe (they still hadn't settled on a name). Point being, if he couldn't trust Sam and Daniel on a technical problem... one that he'd partly caused... who _could _he trust?

"O- okay, it's like... like this, guys: she isn't s- supposed... to even b- be... there. When John... c- called me, I uploaded a... a monster, and..."

Scurrying back to the dorm as late as they did, the trio nearly got caught. But, they made it in just under curfew, slipping past Mr. Fenworthy, with plans already formed.

In London, England, meanwhile, a certain fashion model- cum- operative-spy- aristocrat pulled out her cell phone between photo shoots. For something to do, and because she was lonely, and under-dressed, Penelope hit a button and began paging through the pictures stored on her phone. One after another, they flashed by. Old school chums, her parents (before they'd had to part with the yacht), and then, close to the end, a beautiful young man. Her most frequent paramour.

Penelope paused, suddenly alone amid hot lights, twittering makeup artists, a group of bemused peacocks, and Francois. Chaos, conversation, people; all of it faded as Penny regarded the image. Like all the others, it was a video clip, actually, and playable.

On the island, they'd been, by the lower pool. He'd glanced over at her soft call, unsmiling and calm. Tossing aside a blue towel, he'd pushed the damp blond hair from his face with one hand, then started forward, wearing black swim trunks and a slight frown.

The noon-day sun had struck glints from the fine gold hairs on his slim body, making him seem almost to shine. There the video clip ended, though she knew the rest of the story. Penny gazed at the picture, not thinking so much as _feeling. _Perhaps they'd both been a trifle hasty?

For a long, aching instant, she hovered between actions, deeply torn. Choices must be made, however, and in this universe, the young noblewoman chose not to delete John Tracy's image. Instead, she called his number, and left a message.

"Hello, John. Er... terribly sorry to have missed the 'family call', but that perfect scoundrel of an accountant forgot to pay the cell phone chit, and... Well, it's all been a dreadful misunderstanding. _Do _forgive me, darling. I..." she hesitated, smiled tremulously, then added, "I miss you, love. Return the call, please, when you're able."

And then, Penny ended the message, perfectly oblivious to the fact that Francois had been shrilling at her for the last five minutes. Shouldering the frantic little designer aside, Penelope tucked the phone away and headed for Parker. On the way, she wondered vaguely whether John would like her skimpy, clashing outfit, and if it might remind him of better days.

_Tracy Island-_

After John made contact, when the family 'conference call' ended, Gordon signed off and the others began drifting away in pairs and threes. Jeff Tracy signaled his middle son, Virgil, to stay behind.

The dark-haired young man, as hard-muscled and solid as though he still played football, came over to stand by his father's big desk. When the last footfall and voice faded down corridor, Virgil folded his arms defensively. He had a pretty fair notion what all this was about. Quietly, he said,

"You wanted to talk to me, Sir?"

Jeff nodded. He and Virgil were almost exactly the same height. They saw eye-to-eye... physically, anyhow.

"I did, yes." The elder Tracy responded briskly. "It's been pretty chaotic around here, with the situations in Spain, and Mars, and the last few rescue missions... and we haven't had much chance to talk, you and I."

Keeping his gaze locked to his son's, Jeff went on,

"But, the thing is, Virgil... when the World Unity Complex was attacked, and I gave the directive to stand down, you disobeyed me."

"No, sir," Virgil interrupted. Quiet still, but firm as a granite mountain side. "I didn't. You told _Scott_ to stay put. You never noticed me, or Gordon, either. So we went, and we got the job done."

Jeff paused, startled by Virgil's unexpected stubbornness. Usually, the middle Tracy was the most compliant and easy-going of his offspring.

"Be that as it may..."

But Virgil held up a silencing hand, something unusually hard in his brown eyes. Most of his life, he 'went along, to get along', battering himself nearly to pieces playing a game he didn't even like. But times had changed, and so had Virgil.

"I'm sorry if you don't agree, Father, but we saved lives by launching when we did. And if it happened again... I'd do the same thing. And, I bet, so would Gordon."

'Middle kid'... eager to please... the peacemaker and diplomat, almost lost in the shadow of his fighter pilot, astronaut, and Olympic gold medalist brothers. Jeff saw it all fall away that day, watched Virgil literally 'grow up'. The older man's mouth hardened to a thin line, but he nodded, stiff and reluctant as a wooden puppet.

"I see your point, son," he replied. "But International Rescue is an organization, with rules and a chain of command. From here on out, I'd appreciate it if you'd express your opinions instead of sneaking off, and follow orders, real or implied."

Hands in his pockets, Virgil appeared to ponder the matter. Finally, he returned his father's nod.

"Yes, sir. I think I can do that... as long as the orders don't delay help, or mean I've gotta leave one of my brothers in a fix."

"Deal." They had an understanding, at least, and shook on it, man to man.


	57. Chapter 57

_Wrote moving introduction first three times; got kicked off, keeping it short now. Thankyou to Tikatu, Trekker, Varda's Servant, Agent Five and I'mpekable. Always glad of input. Yes, will soon be done, hopefully not "TBC" mode. Reading and reviewing others straightforwardly, I promise!  
_

57

The problem was a missing computer intelligence, one that must be lured forth and contained, before she could be reasoned with. So, second stage planning went something like this:

At breakfast the following morning, in the underclassmen's dining hall, Fermat, Daniel and Sam agonized their way through the headmaster's long, droning prayer (gratitude, basically, and the importance of hard work). _Finally,_ they mouthed their 'amens', sat down in precise unison with 422 other boys, and returned to the problem of Five.

"As... I s- see it," Fermat whispered, leaning over so far that his glasses steamed, and the end of his red silk tie dangled in his scrambled eggs, "It's mostly... a... a matter of verisimilitude."

"Explain," Sam demanded, keeping his voice as low as possible. The elegant, wood-paneled dining hall was quite crowded, but conversation the merest low buzz. _No one_ raised his voice at mealtimes. Proctors and tradition made certain.

Daniel, diverted by the meticulous construction of a toast and bacon sandwich, seemed hardly to be listening.

"If... we c- can... can come up with a scenario that... that seems perilous enough, involving... someone sh- she simply won't... won't allow harm t- to come to, Five will... rise to the bait, Sam."

"It's a computer," his friend grunted, around a mouthful of cantaloupe, "It'll accept as fact whatever scenario we input."

"Y- yes," Fermat agreed, "For... about an attosecond. She's t- too smart to be... be fooled for... long."

"Why 'Five'?" Daniel wondered aloud, suddenly, eyes on his masterpiece. "Boring name for a computer, isn't it? Why not 'Steeler', or 'Hal', or 'Braniac', or 'Uniblab', or 'Hactar', or... 'Deep Thought', for that matter? Why just a number? Not very imaginative, as far as I'm concerned. I mean, the list of potential names goes on and on, so why...?"

The answer was quite logical, but Fermat couldn't reveal it without heavily compromising IR security. Fortunately, Sam thought he already knew.

"_Version _Five, Smart One! Not everyone names their computers after sports teams and sci-fi characters. Think about it."

Short and sharp, but Daniel seemed satisfied, taking an enormous bite of his bacon sandwich by way of reply. Fermat's sigh of relief was lost amid the chink and clatter of silverware on Spode China. He plunged on, murmuring a quick 'thank you' when Will Lattimer passed him the juice pitcher.

"At... any rate, w- what we have to do is... confuse and a- alarm her, just... long enough to m- make Five investigate our c- containment unit."

As Fermat had explained, the computer's original 'housing' had been destroyed some time ago. That should have been the end of Five. _Should _have been. But John Tracy had written a subroutine that allowed his computer to parse herself to many different locations, just in case. The instant before the space station disintegrated, John had signaled her remotely, permitting Five to seek refuge elsewhere. Now, though, she'd simply vanished, and the trick would be getting her to show herself, recombine and enter the rigged computer. Once located and 'pinned', her actual reprogramming ought to be trivial. In theory, at least.

"Sam, if... you c- can... juice up a computer, and... pack it with... all the storage c- capacity... known to... man, we'll have our... 'container'. Daniel... make up some kind of... v- video game apocalypse s- scenario... involving John Tracy, and a really... nasty b- bad guy. We're going for... s- seamless illusion and... maximal drama, here. C- can't give her... time to th- think. She's never r- run a game, th- that I know of, so... she shouldn't immediately... de- detect the... fraud."

"How about the Hood?" Daniel offered, eyes lighting up at the prospect of a true design challenge. "He's a back-orifice-and-a-half! No one's seen him in awhile, either, so I could work up a really sinister revenge plot, kind of like when he took those Rescue guys hostage. Remember that? Question is..." he trailed off momentarily, troubled by a possible logic flaw. "Why would the Hood pick on a harmless astronaut/ hacker guy?"

Choosing the better part of valor, Fermat gulped a mouthful of bland eggs (_oh, for Kyrano, or Grandmother Tracy...!_) then resumed talking.

"You'll th- think of something, Daniel. Whenever it's... good enough to...fool a _really _smart computer... load it on flash-drive and g- give it over. I'll code it. We... can upload f- from Sam's 'container' PC, then yank internet access when... when she bites. And p- presto, one... bottled genie!"

Pleased with their game plan, the boys slapped palms over the elegant table settings in a boisterous, three-way salute.

Will Lattimer glanced over, pale-haired and scornful. To his own old-money friends he muttered,

"Computer geeks... what else would you expect?"

He and several other boys snickered loudly, until Sam leaned over and stage-whispered,

"If I were you, Will, _I'd_ be worrying about Lacrosse. I hear that St. Peter's has snared an Olympic champion to coach their team this year. But, hey, it's all about good, clean fun... not _winning. _Right?"

Sam had hardly finished speaking before Will (and every other lacrosse player within earshot) hauled out his cellphone to call 'daddy'. If St. Peter's could hire an Olympian, then, by God, Wharton should have twenty!

Smiling quietly, Sam lifted his hands, intoning,

"My work here is done. Go wield your netted sticks in peace, larval ones."

Fermat stifled a grin. With just seven minutes of morning break remaining, he had to eat and talk. _Fast._

"W- we'll... split up after... after last session, to w- work on our... separate projects. Then... d- dinner together, and... a meeting 'below'. Sound like a... plan?"

The other two nodded, Daniel Solomon taking a giant swig of milk and concluding with,

"Just wait, guys. It's going to be _exponentially_ cool. I'll have that computer absolutely convinced that John Tracy is back on Earth, and in the deadliest trouble anyone's ever seen. She'll spit her chips, _guaranteed."_

_Madrid, Spain-_

For a time, he wandered aimlessly, passing along the Prado, the broad plazas and museums, Mare Nostrum, and about twenty open-air markets. Narrow, tree-lined streets boasted dance clubs, stores and outdoor cafes in plenty, but none of these held much interest, at the moment.

Instead, as clarity and purpose returned, Gordon found his path gradually turning back 'round. Not to the water sports area, though. His walk ended west of the natatorium, by a set of sweeping steps leading to the gymnastics center, at the sunny corner of San Isidro and El Salvador. Big building, it was, fronted in pink granite and draped in colorful flags.

For just an instant, the image of TinTin Kyrano came to him, wearing a necklace he vaguely recalled giving her. But... they were just good mates, weren't they? Why would TinTin care if he called on another lass? Why should it mattter if she did?

The young swimmer hesitated, fists shoved deep in the pockets of his blue-and-gold team jacket. Ought he to go in? And would she be happy to see him? (More likely heave something hard and heavy at him, but he'd never learn which, just standing there.)

The gusty breeze, dancing leaf shadows and car horns provided no insight. Someone bumped him in passing, muttering,

_"Yo ciento,"_

...an apology Gordon returned without even looking around. The hurried pedestrian had knocked him slightly toward the gymnasium. Taking this for a sign, the teenaged boy squared his shoulders and started on up the stairs.

Through two sets of doors he went, showing a highly suspicious guard his athletic pass (and his limited command of Spanish). Fortunately, the fellow recognized him. For an autograph and a team pin, he let Gordon through.

After the dazzling light and noise of the street, the gym's interior seemed cool and dim, though far from quiet. Very different, it was. Very alien. Instead of shouts, whistles and splashing, there were clipped commands and the constant, wince-inducing slap of flesh against mats and bars. (Like a non-stop chorus of belly flops...)

The smell filling the chilly air was that of chalk dust, perfume and sweat, rather than chlorine and zinc oxide. The coaches seemed quiet and intense, hardly shouting at all, except to make themselves heard.

The building consisted mainly of one vast room, with a row of office doors just visible on the brightly-painted far wall. Flags swayed from the high ceiling (one twisting by a single support), and busy, ant-like activity was everywhere.

Gordon stepped further within, looking about at the many slim, athletic figures that leapt, twisted and bounced from equipment as varied as their exercises. Besides the floor mats, there were rings, balance beams, and the uneven bars (at the lasses' end, at least; Gordon had very little interest in what the men might be about, or what they were doing it on).

He was looking for a female gymnast, one he'd met in Portland, what seemed like decades ago. Unfortunately, he had no assurance that she'd be practicing today. Entire visit might be a bloody waste of time, for all Gordon knew...

Then he spotted her, working at her floor exercises on a big, square mat. Small and pretty in a blue-and-gold leotard, Anika Peralta flitted like a swallow. She skimmed the red mat rather than touched it, turning flawless handsprings and mid-air somersaults. It was flight and dance, together, like synchronized swimming without the water, and Gordon was as transfixed here, as he had been at the Portland Olympics.

Music transmitted through a small ear-piece provided her rhythm, but the rest was pure, athletic poetry. Anika was grace personified; lovely as a snowflake. Gordon watched for awhile, quiet and unmoving. Then, at the finish of a leaping split, she noticed him. Immediately, the exercise changed, as the girl shifted from practice to performance. Saucy head tosses, swift, over-the-shoulder smiles and redoubled energy (all directed at _him)_ won the lithe young gymnast much more than a gold medal.

She ended the exercise at the exact center of the mat, arms dramatically raised, head lifted proudly, then bowed once, in Gordon's direction. He applauded, not sure if she could hear him over the ear-piece.

Not important, as it turned out. Smiling excitedly, Anika scampered over, pulling up short directly before him with a deep breath and a joyous bounce. She'd made her flying dance seem effortless on the mat, but, up close, Gordon could see perspiration beading her forehead.

Big, clear green eyes filled with light and mischief, wavy, pale-brown hair caught back like a ballerina's, and a sinewy-slim body completed the picture.

"Gordon!" She exclaimed, mispronouncing his name (too much emphasis on the first syllable, but he didn't really mind). "You didn't say you are going to come!"

She made a little phone gesture with one hand at the side of her head. She was always talking with her hands that way, rapidly and excitedly. Rather charming, that.

"Um... well," (He hadn't known _himself_, until a few minutes before, but it seemed wiser not to say so.) "...I thought I'd just... surprise you."

"Then, you have done well, because I am very surprising... surprise-_ish?_" Anika trailed off, confused.

"Surpris_ed_," Gordon helped out. After all, considering that most Madrillenos would happily have paid him off _not _to speak their language, he had no right to feel superior. Anika darted forward, giving him the swiftest and tightest of hugs, and unleashing several, very pleasant, memories.

She'd medaled twice at the Portland Olympics, and Gordon had been at the sidelines both times; her 'luckiness', as she claimed... and afterward, _damn,_ but it had been a trial, finding a private spot.

It was at this point, precisely, that Gordon noticed someone else. A man. Though, on second look, how he'd missed the fellow in the first place, he had no idea. It was a coach. A big one. Like a dockside warehouse with fur, or a grizzly bear with a whistle, blue eyes and a migraine. There was something familiar about him, but...

"Bela!" Anika chirped at the hairy mountain, as it lumbered up. "Look! Here is Gordon!"

Then, turning back to the nervous swimmer,

"Gordon, you remember Bela Stepanovic, yes? My coach?"

Ah, yes. _Bela._ He'd put on a few (hundred) pounds. Steroids, maybe? Gordon was in the habit, on meeting another man, of sizing the fellow up, determining before hand how hard it would be to take him down, and whether a teammate or two might be required to get the job done. This guy... tranquilizer gun, from about 150 meters, and deep cover.

Bela scowled, staring hard at Gordon, who felt extremely compact, suddenly, and _very_ respectful.

"This is boy, from Olympics?" The dark-haired titan demanded. He spoke to Anika, though his eyes never left Gordon's face.

"Yes!" she replied, seemingly oblivious to the tension between the coach, and Gordon Tracy. "He has come for the practice, for surprising me, and I am..."

"You cry for _three months_ after Olympics," Bela cut her off, his scowl deepening, his heavy dark brows colliding like thunderheads.

Yes, well... he'd _meant _to call, but matters had quickly become more convoluted than Gordon could possibly explain. Perhaps this was all a giant mistake? But Anika put a hand on his arm, shooting her coach a fierce look.

"Bela, _stop!_" Giving his arm an apologetic squeeze, she continued, "I was _not _crying after the Olympics! I was... I had... allergies!"

Stepanovic mumbled something dark and unfathomable in his own harsh language. Might have been just a recipe, or an invitation to tea, but it certainly didn't sound that way.

_Elephant gun,_ Gordon amended his earlier assessment, _from Thunderbird 2._

Anika pulled him slightly away from her suspicious coach, attempting to change the subject.

"You came only for to see me?" the girl asked, gazing at him with as hopeful a pair of green eyes as Gordon had ever seen. Her heart-shaped face, with its broad forehead, kittenish chin and full lips, just about glowed.

"Yes, actually. I've a bit of time t' myself today, and I... wondered whether you might not, after practice, want to... see a film, or something? _Together_, I mean. With me."

Must've said something right, because he got a quick kiss for it. Then, the girl made a sudden leap and whirl that left her facing the smouldering coach.

"_Bela...?"_ she pled, tipping her head up to regard her massive guardian.

It was to Gordon he spoke, rather than Anika. Leveling a huge, hairy-knuckled finger at the swimmer's broad chest, he snapped,

"You are returning her by curfew, or swim team is finding new boy! And then, you are remembering to call. If Anika is made once more to cry, I will be tearing you in small pieces, to step on and sweep in gutter."

_Wonderful gentleman. Salt of the Earth._

"Bela...!" The gymnast raged, face red as the floor mat.

Surly and suspicious, her coach muttered further imprecations into his dense walrus mustache, but relented. He knew when he was beaten.

Sensing victory, Anika seized Gordon's right hand in both of her own, and tugged him off. Energetic as a cricket, she made him feel positively sedate.

"I will go now, for a shower, and to get painted and dressed. Wait here. Right _here. _I am running, see?"

This last, delivered over one shoulder as the girl sprinted her way to the locker rooms. Anika was a typical Catalan, by turns imperious, quixotic and tender. He wasn't quite certain what his feelings for her were, not yet; but, Gordon very much looked forward to finding out.

_Washington DC, far below ground-_

Shr3ddr checked the steel door again, then crossed the bunker to his computer station, troubled by circular, worrisome thoughts. He'd made further progress, but the going was tough, the data difficult to extract. _Quietly,_ anyhow.

What he'd taken to calling 'the Princeton Gang' had started out innocently enough; mischievous exploits launched against Harvard, Yale, MIT and Empire State University. The sort of prank that resulted in Harvard's carillons being reprogrammed to play the Princeton fight song, for instance. Or the office lights on all four sides of MIT's administration building being tampered with, so that the pattern of lit and dark windows formed the image of a tiger (Princeton University's mascot). Annoying, but relatively harmless. Then, something had happened.

The group had become quieter, their 'steps' much harder to trace. And the thrust of their exploits shifted suddenly from dumb pranks to high-tech international data-mining, and industrial espionage. Then, less than a year later, it was all over. Their apparent leader had fallen to the feds, while the rest of the group ceased operation, but remained free, all but disappearing from the web.

Not a very tight-knit bunch, were they? To not even set up a _'Release Racer X'_ site? Damn disloyal, in fact. And the $64,000 question was, _why?_

After probing Princeton's admin files, scouring the freshman 'Face Book', and sifting through Campus Security's secret archives, Shr3ddr began to develop a theory.

One of their professors (this 'Racer X') must have singled out his most gifted students, then spent some time gathering information on their backgrounds and activities; enough, the hacker assumed, to blackmail them into doing what he wanted. Having put them in harness, he'd then used his 'captive' students to steal valuable data for him, until, somehow, _he _got caught.

In the aftermath, the group had evaporated... almost. One of them was still active, his exploits grown so quick and powerful that he could scarcely be detected, much less caught. Whoever he was, he'd somehow gone on to land a position with International Rescue. Obviously well versed in avoiding detection, he was cagey enough to operate out of many different computers, and mask his identity. Under stress, though, he'd reverted to his college MO, delivering a serious threat, and what _should_ have been a clear 'finger print'. No such luck.

Swigging a power drink, and plucking at his lower lip, Shr3ddr slumped deeper into the padded computer chair, and tried to think matters through.

Did he really want to strap this guy on, again? Another glance at the locked doors answered his question, hard and swift as a fist. For two days now, the usual supplies had failed to come. Nor had he been allowed out of the bunker.

Shr3ddr wasn't a fool. The implication was clear; cough up the goods on International Rescue, or rot here, alone and forgotten. That morning, obviously intended to heighten his concerns, the power had cut out, leaving the hacker in absolute blackness for over 30 minutes. He'd spent the next hour and a half bringing his computers to life, again, and jacking back in. His employer, it seemed, was becoming impatient.

And so, back to business. He returned to clicking through the Face Book, aggravated to think that one of those smirking, secure bastards was his quarry. Daddy's pampered little Ivy League boy... _But, which one?_

There were two obvious solutions to the puzzle. Racer X was one of them, but with Interpol now holding the other end of the man's leash, Shr3ddr chose to inquire elsewhere.

The other possibility, that of identifying one of the group members, then finding the rest by association, would be much harder. Safer, though. And, ultimately, the hacker preferred to come out of all this rich, free, and alive.

_W3bh3ad... DNC... Backslash... Anarchick... Razr404... Kryptoni3n... D-Day... _One of them held the golden ticket to International Rescue's leader, and the hell out of this underground cell.

"Sorry, Thunder-kiddie," the hacker mumbled, though he wasn't. Not really. "Even if you didn't deserve 100 percent of what's coming to you, you're standing between me and the door. Let's play, little fellow."

_Elsewhere:_

It was a nice day for a yellow-brown, Martian sunrise, and a trip out of doors. Grocery shopping, the NASA way...


	58. Chapter 58: Visibility

_Back, essentially, to normal! Old OS now available again, including my email, so I'm able to resume writing, and better yet, reading! _

58

_Endurance-_

They were up and doing before daybreak, roused by the last man on watch that night, John Tracy. Early morning Mars glow made everything around them as yellow-brown as a coffee stain, and weirdly unearth-like. But that was outside; inside, the onboard systems whirred, clicked, cut off and shifted duties; as busy, in their fashion, as the newly wakened crew.

As always, there were checklists. Interweaving, timed and concurrent, they frequently required one crewmember to cross paths with another, at the precise momentwhen a third hand or second set of eyes would be most useful. It was almost balletic, in a fast-forward, over-turned ant pile sort of way. As the light rose outdoors, and mission elapsed time clicked relentlessly over, work aboard ship grew more intense and focused.

The vessel itself had to be prepped, and placed on standby, hard-suits inspected and donned, then the tractor powered up. Pete McCord further commanded ('management decision', as he called it) that the two massive power suits be unloaded.

"No idea what's out there," he told the crew, as they gathered for a brief meeting, "but I'll be damned if we're going to stroll up to it, fat, dumb and happy. Ladies, full power, widest scans possible, and all weapons ready. You're gonna be the heavy hitters out there, today, and I'll need you on high alert. Get the picture?"

Linda nodded briskly, rummaging through the galley for leftover _anything._

"Frame, canvas and pigment," the doctor quipped, forcing a light tone. She wasn't turning much up in the way of breakfast. "Al_though_… two days ago, I'd have said that the worst thing we might run into would be some really peeved microbes."

Cho located the last box of chemically stabilized milk, which they might have shared 'round, had the boys not conveniently turned up lactose-intolerant… or not hungry… or too keyed up to eat, leaving the milk to Linda and Cho.

Physician first, and person second, Dr. Bennett started to _order _a general mouthful apiece. Kim Cho stopped her in mid-snap, though, placing a gentle hand on her arm.

"Let them," the Korean whispered softly, as Pete, Roger and John went off about their scheduled business. "It is all they can do for us."

Bennett's lips pursed, as she regarded the boxed milk, and the retreating males.

"We're not _helpless, _Cho," she replied tautly, raising her voice a bit, as a hidden cooling fan started up, "we don't need looking after, just because we're women!"

She rattled with every gesture, loud as a shower of pebbles in the dense plastic and metal of her Martian hard-suit.

"Perhaps not," Cho responded serenely, opening the milk box, and dividing its contents into two waiting cups. (Her black hair was pony-tailed back, and she looked like the schoolgirl heroine of a Japanese cartoon in all that gleaming black and yellow armor).

"…but they still feel the need to try. Blame testosterone," And Cho smiled slightly, the bit of lip gloss she'd smeared on that morning catching and returning the overhead lights, "…drink the milk, and let them be men."

Second-best advice she'd gotten all day. Linda and Cho downed the milk, then scraped together a meal for the guys; weak coffee, with a last slice of bread toasted and split three ways. If nothing else, it was warming, and much appreciated.

_Endurance _had a big, darkcargo bay, where the power suits and tractor were kept (also the unused habitation module, biological samples and drilling equipment). A garage, basically. The air smelled of lube oil and spray-sealed packing foam, and it was cold enough within for their breath to mist up, triggering the hard-suits' heating units. Wasteful to leave off their helmets, so Cho gave Roger a quick, shy kiss, letting him stroke a bit of dark hair off her forehead before locking in.

Pete and John were deep in conversation. Something serious, and mostly one-sided, as McCord did the talking to occasional, silent nods from his blond pilot. Linda would have liked to say something, but stifled herself on the grounds that it wouldn't have sounded professional. She wasn't about to let anxiety and loneliness push her into a doomed relationship. Junior- high school stuff, and she was too smart… too _mature…_ for such nonsense.

So, she gave the two men a nod in passing, locked down her helmet and crossed over the slatted metal deck to her power suit, footfalls reverberating through the air until she sounded like a tour group at a cathedral. She'd be even louder, soon.

The big, cybernetic loading machine stood cocooned in its gantry, powered down and silent. In her off time, Linda had slipped down to the service bay and buffed off the suit's corporate logos, leaving only the NASA and mission emblems, and the American flag. Raytheon and Tracy Aerospace might be paying the bills, but they hadn't purchased _her_.

She climbed up into the proudly cleansed machine, took a seat in the open cockpit, strapped in and hooked up. The thing at once came to life, transferring sensory data from the power suit to her own skin and nerves. In essence, she'd now feel and act through the machine's systems, rather than merely piloting it.

As she looked around at readouts and power levels, scanning ship and crewmates in fourteen different frequencies, a voice came over her helmet comm.

"Hey." John, laconic and quiet as ever. He'd chosen a private channel.

"Hey, yourself, Sunshine," she replied, still trying to balance professionalism with growing affection. _Damn._ So much for 'too mature'…!

He inquired (from anyone else, it would have been nothing more than a hollow pleasantry; for John, however, a genuine attempt at conversation),

"How's it going, doctor? Interface giving you any trouble?" He'd repaired the laser damage done to her suit's knee, all those months ago, and was still concerned about sensory feedback.

"Awful," she joked as the gantry pulled away, allowing her to flex the repaired limb, "I've got this terrible pain in all the diodes down my left-hand side."

"Sounds like a wetware problem," John told her, feigning seriousness, "but I'll see what I can do."

Someone keyed open the external access hatch, which thendropped outward with a loud, grinding clank, forming a ramp to the ground outside. The service bay filled at once with bitter wind, swirling sand and a glimmer like moldy orange marmalade. Show time.

That this was _it_, that life or death decisions would soon be made based on what lay in the distant supply cylinders, escaped no one, and was likewise remarked upon by no one. They'd cross that frayed rope bridge when they got to it. In the meantime, there was work to be done.

The tractor was a low-slung, multi-tread affair with a closed cab. It hummed to life at the press of a switch, then caterpillared down-ramp, driven by Roger Thorpe. Pete rode shotgun, John further back, strapped into a bulkhead seat. Not very comfortable, but he had too much on his mind, at the time, to really care. For just the briefest, weird instant, the universe had seemed to… _skip_, like a scratched disk, or poorly spliced film. As if reality had taken another hair-pin turn just a shade too fast, and lost its grip on the road, again.

"Eddies in the time stream," he murmured to no one in particular (carrying on with Bennett's joke), "…sure wish he'd get the hell out."

No one else seemed to have noticed, so John pushed the matter aside to focus on immediacies. Roger kept his eyes on the lightly frosted, orange and grey 'road' as though he anticipated flashing lights and a siren.

The Marine navigated only partly from memorized simulations. Besides landscape cues (he was headed, broadly speaking, for the terrain between the two nearest craters, and away from the Tharsis plateau), Thorpe used the cylinders' locator beacons to choose his course. Coordinates beamed down from Mars Global Surveyor, and Pete's quiet travelogue provided all the guidance necessary. A good thing, too, as the view was often obscured by flying sand, or sudden dips in the terrain. Not that they were moving all that swiftly, not on triangular treads; just that the wind had picked up, and the lighter stuff seemed to spend a great deal of time in the air.

From inside, the tractor was quite noisy, with a rough, jolting ride reminiscent of the Mole. Suspension needed work, John noted, with a tiny part of his occupied mind.

_(Something very large and unwieldy was pushing through his thoughts, trying to fit itself together…) _

Staring through round, thick-paned windows, he could see the power suits pacing along to either side of the snarling tractor, kicking up fountains of red dust with each long, loping stride.

The big machines were remarkably fluid, their operators' movements converted in real time, with nearly human grace, like some kind of world's fair animatronics. Massive and strong, they were, but surprisingly fragile, for Linda and Cho were actually less protected up there than the men in the tractor. More exposed to radiation and flying sand, for instance.

Suddenly apprehensive, John rubbed at the back of his left suit gauntlet with the right, as though Five could be summoned like a genie. He felt terribly, dangerously blind, just then.

"Steganography," he announced moments later, half to himself.

Pete stopped muttering directions for a bit, and turned in the copilot's seat. Inside his helmet, the mission commander's head looked like a little figure in a snow globe. John had the sudden, irreverent urge to shake him.

"Sorry…?" McCord prodded. "What-o-graphy?" He'd learned to take John's offbeat pronouncements seriously. Nine times out of ten, they led somewhere important, though by very devious routes.

"Steganography." The pilot repeated quietly. "Hidden writing. Um… digitally speaking, it's when you code something _inside_ another message… music or movies, say… and let it assemble itself once the Trojan message has gotten through the victim's firewall. Should have recognized it, as much as I code overflows and backdoors…"

Pete glanced over at Thorpe, then back at John, again. The Marine was similarly clueless, responding with a baffled shrug.

"Tracy," Pete said, "relate this to what we're doing _here_ and _now_, for me, please. Maybe it makes all kinds of sense to you, but some of us are a little slower."

John tried to tap at his own forehead, ended up rapping a plastic clad finger against the new faceplate.

"Some of that alien information," he informed the frowning commander, "seems to be compiling."

"Meaning…?" Pete's sandy eyebrows were about to crochet themselves together.

"Still working on it, Pete. When _I've_ used the technique, it's been to code a trademark, or, sometimes, a rogue command. But this? Hell if I know…"

_"Something going on, Pete?"_ Linda transmitted from without. Their speed had dropped, as Thorpe became distracted.

"Roger that, Doctor. Will explain ASAP. Stick to your schedule in the meantime, please."

"Understood, commander." She sounded miffed.

Speaking to John, again, McCord said,

"Give me a risk assessment, Tracy. What're the odds that it _is_ a rogue command, and that you're likely to do something dangerous?"

"I don't know, Pete…" John responded, almost conversationally. "It's hard to tell, from the inside. Uncomfortably likely, I'd say."

"Shit." The commander considered a moment. "When this is all over, I'm retiring, moving back to Saginaw. Nothing ever happens in Michigan…" Then, "Last time, I jumped the gun and nearly got you killed, Tracy. Turned out to be a four-alarm false positive."

_For God's sake, as a tiny child, John Tracy had sat on his lap, reading aloud from Armstrong's memoirs! Pete had gotten drunk enough, once, to hold mistletoe over Lucy's head and kiss her, earning a swift kick in the shin from her outraged blond son… There was no way in hell he could be objective!_

"Keep me posted," the mission commander said at last, heavily. "And, if you get the urge to do _anything_, even go to the damn _bathroom,_ talk to someone, first. That's a standing order, Tracy. Supersedes everything else, get it?"

"Got it, Pete."

"Skipper…?" Roger broke in, quietly. "Don't mean to interrupt, but we're within a click and a half of the first supply depot, and the wind's starting to kick up, out there. Global Surveyor's tracking a bitch of a dust storm, headed our way. The window's closing, fast."

"Right. Let's get moving, then."

Pete reached over and clapped a hand to John's nearer arm, generating a hollow, metallic sound; the scrape and clang of armor, rather than comfort. Sudden inspiration made him add,

"I want you to think about how you'd deal with this in a computer, Tracy. Come up with some defensive strategies and get back to me, once we've loaded up the groceries. There's gotta be _some _way to erase a hidden message…"

Through the forward window, the men could just make out a line of rusty red brown, boiling its way over the horizon.

"…before it's too late."


	59. Chapter 59: Venom

59

_D.C., outside the United States Senate, early afternoon-_

"Senator!"

He paused in mid-stride and turned, an automatic smile crossing his thin, sallow face.

"Senator Stennis!"

Bounding athletically up the steps toward him, smiling as brightly as D.C.'s late summer sun, was a pretty young woman. Red- haired, she was, with a trim little figure swathed in black Prada and Hermes. Janet Priestly, a lobbyist and fundraiser from Sutfield, Georgia.

Hiding his impatience, for he was overdue to meet with one of his more talented underlings, the senator broadened his smile, extended a hand, and strode back down the marble steps to meet her.

"Janet!" He exclaimed warmly, almost as if he meant it, "_so _good to see you again, Darlin'!"

Very nearly as false as he was, the lobbyist accepted his handshake, and a brief, side-arm hug.

"Now, Senator! You'll turn my head!" And she feigned a shy little blush, cocking her head to one side like a mischievous squirrel.

"Call me 'Lamar', Honey. On Capitol Hill, I need all the friends I can get."

He was a new enough figure in the Senate to still be feeling his way, groping for alliances and power. Up and coming, though; and a man to watch.

Janet smiled, and this time, the expression was less faked. Her red hair floating a bit in the hot, gusty breeze, she handed him an expensive brochure.

"That's just the way business gets done up here, Lamar… friends helpin' friends. You know my boss, don't you…? Alexander Padgett? Of the _Savannah _Padgetts? 'Course you do, fine old family like yours!"

Senator Stennis nodded, waiting for the trap, as sharp eyed and wary as a deep-cover sniper.

"Indeed, I do, little lady. Went to school with his son, Ashton. Had us some times, I tell you whut."

Janet Priestly dimpled as charmingly as a young film star.

"You college boys! Always into mischief! _Well…"_ They'd started up the steps, again, headed into the U.S. Senate's columned main entrance.

(Ordinarily, Stennis preferred side routes and back ways, but there'd been an important photo op with a Medal of Honor winner, and he deemed the potential face time too critical to pass up. Thus, the front door.)

Their path meandered and paused, for there was a steady pulse of political types to be greeted and glad-handed, names and hints to be dropped. Stennis worked his colleagues like a pro.

As green lawns, hot sun and blinding marble switched to buzzing security gates and the cool, shadowed interior, Janet went on with her pitch.

"Mr. Padgett's been workin' _ever _so hard, Lamar, just _hustlin' _night and day to build up support for the Wetlands Protection bill."

She placed a manicured hand on his sleeve, at once confiding and flirtatious.

_"Everyone_ knows you never miss a vote, Lamar, and that you're a man of conscience, and honor. Your support on August twenty-eighth would mean _so _much to Mr. Padgett, and to Georgia, Sir. I do hope I can tell Mr. Padgett that he's got an old friend of the family in his corner, come vote time."

"Darlin'," Stennis quietly replied, "when you get right down to it, all we got's our reputations, and the Earth we all share. The good people of Texas thought enough of me to put me in office, and I aim to give 'em their money's worth. The health of our wetlands is as important to the Republic of Texas as it is to Georgia, little lady, and you can tell Mr. Alexander Padgett I said so."

This time, Janet's smile was absolutely genuine. Utterly taken in, she said,

"Thank you, Senator. I'll do just that. And, I'm sure Mr. Padgett would be most kindly disposed toward any future bills or amendments you might see fit to back, Sir."

Stennis returned the smile, looking terribly earnest and incorruptible in his dark suit and Texas lapel pin.

"Like you say, Janet; just friends helpin' friends." _(And providing huge campaign contributions, though that part of the deal remained unspoken.)_

Janet left him, satisfied that she'd swung another vote for the all-important Wetlands Protection Act.

So many people, all needing space to live in, and real food to eat…! All trapped in the soul-numbing, technological nightmare of modern 'life' (or, what passed for it).

Well, Senator Stennis intended to free his mired brethren, using the Red Path to destroy WorldGov and its guard dogs. There were obstacles, though. Major ones.

He strode further into the Senate building, passing over the 'lucky star' on the rotunda floor, and back toward his new office suite in the Rectangle.

The expression, a careful mask of compassionate humility, left Stennis' face the instant he stepped into his office and closed the door. Empty. Jewel's lunch hour would end soon, but he could buy himself a little more time for the _real _meeting of the day by ordering up a traffic accident, timed to intersect her route.

Plans and schemes… the senator had so many irons in the fire at the moment, some legitimate, others very much _not,_ that matters were beginning to pile up. No secretary or file, and only one subordinate, could be entrusted with the slightest portion of what he did, and knew.

As Vargas wasn't due for another fifteen minutes, Lamar Stennis shrugged off his suit jacket and hung it up. Then, he sat down at his desk, pulled open the top right drawer, and removed a wrapped sandwich. Soy cheese and mustard on thick, white bread.

He flipped his red tie out of harm's way, peeled away the plastic wrap, then began to eat and think; very methodically, in both cases. He'd always been a careful man.

Freedom, for the world's teeming masses, meant a drastically lowered population, and the removal of their weak and ineffectual government. He'd already tried setting WorldGov against International Rescue, only to have the two powerful, sneaky organizations grow together like the severed halves of a slime mold. Before, there had at least been suspicion between the two. Now, thanks to IR's failure to act defensively, one-legged Lady Murasaki would have trusted the Thunderbirds to tuck her into bed at night.

Well, he might not be able to discredit International Rescue, but he could still hurt them, removing a major portion of WorldGov's protection. The first order of business was to ferret out a weak point, and that meant learning names and identities, then removing a few key players. Get rid of the capstone, after all, and the arch will crumble.

Stennis considered what he had, so far. The reporter, Cindy Taylor, was a known contact. He'd struck at her twice, already, just missing both times. There were certain possibilities in that direction, still. Most men would root up and hurl mountains to save a girl. Especially a pretty one (even if she _was _abrasive and mannish, with a mouth like a sewer).

Then, there was the swimmer; Gordon Tracy, Olympic gold medalist and recently adopted son (though this wasn't public knowledge) of _Jeff _Tracy. The red-haired young athlete had been spotted some eighteen months previous, at the scene of a dangerous rescue. He was an IR agent, currently based in Spain, and doubtless well guarded. Stennis had sent a team after this target, as well, only to fall short of acquisition after unexplained trouble on a Tahitian beach. A private site, owned by his multi-billionaire father. Interesting.

There was at least one other son, and this one could not be hidden, for he was an astronaut, as famous in his way as the Mercury 7 pilot he'd reputedly been named for.

Gordon and John… through Jeff Tracy… to NASA, Tracy Aerospace… and International Rescue. There _could _be a family connection. Plus, the billionaire industrialist's involvement would go far toward explaining IR's inexhaustible funding and technology. It seemed like a good bet… And Jeff Tracy might be a critical chess piece. _If _he led the Thunderbirds, then his removal would constitute the decapitating blow Stennis was looking for.

If not… well, the senator had no desire to open up another front in Red Path's war of purification. Not yet.

The multinationals… Tracy Aerospace, Pfizer, Monsanto, Omega Protein… _would_ go down, when the time came. But, a forewarned enemy was doubly dangerous. Why tip his hand? A careful man measured twice, cut once.

There was a critical factor missing, yet, in the form of corroborating data from his 'hacker', Fielding. Once that was in… once Fielding (or Shr3ddr, as he preferred to style himself) provided conclusive proof of IR's leadership, the senator could act, once and for all.

The soy cheese was dry, nothing at all like the real thing. Stennis finished half his sandwich and a bottle of water, sitting at the smallish desk in his Spartan office, watching the shadow of a trapped wasp wander through a slim grid of sunlight squares. Outside, trees and sky and monuments; inside, plots and devices, thick as venom. Then, the door buzzed, and Vargas walked in, looking… satisfied.

_Somewhere, Elsewhen-_

"…_-ted!"_ he snapped out, after a horrible, jolting shift. Not just 'where', but 'when' had changed, so violently that he was left to reel against the walls of the… bathroom stall…? Black plastic dividers, gashed and graffitied, cement floor, wire-caged bulb flickering away on a cracked and vandalized ceiling. Behind him, a broken toilet which he had no desire to investigate further.

Three things (that he knew where he was, that he had no idea how in _hell _he'd gotten there, and that panic and nausea were busy kicking each other's ass in the pit of his stomach) made it a long five minutes before he opened the stall door.

_Upstate New York, Wharton Private Academy for Young Men-_

Fermat Hackenbacker got Daniel's message in the middle of math class. It was short and pointed _(dne Frmt- wts ur prblm?)_, with a background that swiftly changed from silver to deep, roiling red.

He glared at the slim phone, balanced on his lap beneath the slight overhang of the wooden desk and math book. Not the mechanism's fault, though, at the moment, he felt like pitching it across the hall to where Daniel was supposed to be studying medieval literature.

It was two PM, and rainy, the afternoon's luncheon of beef tips, rice pilaf and mandarin oranges warming his insides, while three feet away rain pattered and slid across the windows in long, silvery streaks. It was blurry outside, the sky like a sheet of lead, the soil soft and loamy-dark. Everything green was almost startlingly so, vivid in the moist half light.

Birds stalked the grounds for risen worms, or puddle-washed with quick little fluttering darts. Most were starlings; noisy and gregarious, and entirely too much for the old groundskeeper, who limped along, opening and closing his black umbrella in a vain attempt to shoo the birds. They'd lift, wheel boredly about for awhile, then settle again, like waves returning to shore.

The birds, the old man with his useless black umbrella, and the steady, weeping rain… somehow, it all added up to futility. As though, ultimately, the game was rigged. Like the groundskeeper, Fermat fought back, murmuring a scrap of Anglo-Saxon battle song in the very teeth of entropy,

"_Thought shall be harder, heart the keener, courage the greater, as our might lessens_. Battle of… Maldon. Take th- that, thermodynamics!"

Feeling better, Fermat glanced down at the text message, then cleared the screen with a swift key press. Mr. Carman was still holding forth about simple tensor calculus, rocking back and forth on his heels at the front of the wood-paneled room, hands behind his back, and head slightly bowed. He got that way, sometimes, almost trance-like; his deep, musical voice filling the room with fields and curves and vectored numbers in many dimensions. A gifted teacher, he wore shabby tweeds, a full beard, and always smelled faintly of cigar smoke and Old Spice. Nice guy, all in all; faculty advisor to Fermat, Daniel and Sam, plus a small handful of others. They liked him well enough, but in classes as basic as this one, found it difficult to stay focused. Thus, the messages.

In response to the snarky text, Fermat typed out,

_(wrkng on it: go bck to 4 hrsmn, n lt me thnk!)_

Good ol' 14th century- never a dull moment. Daniel's response, written in purely symbolic logic, explained in a few brief lines why the four horsemen of the apocalypse were now managing a drive-through ice cream stand in Kingsford, Nebraska, and why they didn't take checks.

Fermat chuckled aloud, causing the students nearest him (upperclassmen, all) to slump a bit lower in their seats. There wasn't a half-wit or dull blade in the entire room, but holding up all those aspiring doctors and engineers to Fermat was like comparing an advertising jingle to the collected works of James Joyce.

"Mr. Hackenbacker?" The math teacher inquired quietly, his bushy eyebrows lifting above the rims of his glasses. Hearing Fermat's chuckle, he'd paused in describing the metric tensor's relationship to light.

"Had you something to add, young man?"

Sam Nakamura, seated two rows away in the same room, quickly typed something out on his PDA. Fermat's screen flashed, helpfully,

_(pnt of precdnc- Jckmn fll aslp in clss. Snrd. 5 dmrits. U only laughd. Lssr crim)_

_And _Daniel's fault. But Fermat refused to blame his absent friend, or throw himself upon the mercy of the court, either. Inspiration struck, and the short, brown-haired boy stood up to address his teacher.

"Sir," he began, solemnly, "I w- was… just thinking that… that if people c- could… _see_ energy fields, like… the M-T, if th- they could just…feel the numbers shifting around them… they'd be… delighted."

Carman's leonine head lifted, and he smiled fondly, saying,

"Or horrified, depending upon their perspectives. The Calculus, Mr. Hackenbacker, is not everyone's meat and drink. It is a tool for the wise, a ladder of the mind. Those fortunate enough to grasp the first rungs, will climb far. Resume your seat, young man. Now, to return to the field, in ten dimensions…"

Fermat paid better attention throughout the remainder of the afternoon session, even winning friends by allowing the senior boys beside him to glance at his work, for hints.

He got two more messages, but was unable to check either, not wishing to push his luck. _Finally,_ a reverberating chime announced the end of the session, and of the academic day. Free at last!

Fermat closed his book, and squared away the papers (except for one, that he loaned to Breck Hollingsworth), placing the lot carefully away in his leather satchel. Sam, master of efficiency, was already packed. The class stood beside their desks until Mr. Carman dismissed them, then began leaving the room in small, relaxed groups.

A whole glorious, unscheduled hour stretched before them, the blissful free time between last session and dinner. After that would come chapel, then study hall or sports, followed by a further two hours of unstructured quiet, and a meeting in the steam tunnels.

Daniel joined Sam and Fermat in the big, echoing hallway. Gazed down upon by portraits of Wharton's illustrious alumni, students filed along, filling the wood and stone hall with laughter complaints and ringing footfalls. The school was over 200 years old. Nothing at all by European standards, as Gordon had scoffed, but quite impressive to an American.

Reaching his friends (Daniel Solomon never just 'walked', or 'approached'. He _arrived;_ emphatically, and with a bow-wave of exasperated hurry), the other boy jolted to a halt. He gave his cell phone an incredulous stare, then snapped it shut.

"Bar Mitzvah?" he wondered aloud. "We're not even practicing Jews, and she wants to give me a Bar Mitzvah? I mean, what the… _Hello, there, Miss Wilde!"_

Daniel smoothed at his chaotic, dish-water hair, rumpled tie and half-tucked shirt. He was the archetypal distracted genius, and rather obviously adored the young history teacher. The boy's brown eyes fairly shone when she gave the top of his head an affectionate muss.

"Hello, Daniel," the pretty blonde replied, laughingly. "Famine, plague, pestilence and war still holding your attention?" (She taught the literature class, as well.)

"Yes, Ma'am. Absolutely. Looking forward to the Black Prince, and Crecy and Poitiers and Machiavelli and…"

Miss Wilde held up a hand, smiling at Daniel's enthusiastic confusion. He loved all the drama, but never seemed able to keep events in order.

"Whoa, there, sports fan!" Like young Mr. Solomon, she hailed from Pittsburgh, and a decidedly middleclass family. "Let's leave at least a few sacred cows un-tipped. Full frontal assault tomorrow, I promise."

Daniel's grin widened. It was her many non-sequiturs, her sheer, curve-ball unexpectedness, that so delighted him.

"Yes, Ma'am, Miss Wilde. I'll be there!"

(Like he had a choice, or could have been kept away by rampaging crusaders, if he had. Of course, Anne Wilde's misty-blonde, Renaissance princess looks didn't hurt.)

"…And Medieval literature will never be the same!"

Then, looking over at the other two, but mostly Fermat, she added hopefully,

"Anything more from your friends?" Meaning John Tracy and Roger Thorpe. The boys didn't know it, but the young teacher was keeping a scrapbook, and had taken to frame-grabbing and downloading every NASA press release that featured either astronaut. Her small room in Athena Hall had become a veritable shrine.

Fermat gave her a quick, chagrined smile, but decided not to mention the two messages until he'd played them back in private. There was no telling, really, who had phoned him, or what about.

"Nothing… y- yet, Miss Wilde," he told the disappointed historian, who wilted visibly. "But… you'll… you'll b- be the first to hear… when… anything n- new comes… up."

She sighed, brushing a strand of ash blonde hair from her porcelain face. By this time, the tide of departing students had ebbed, leaving just an occasional hurried senior to rush by, one hand at his satchel, the other out-thrust to stiff-arm the doors.

"Thank you, boys. For all the updates, that is. I'm considered quite the prophetess, now, over in Langley Center."

"Sh- sure."

"Anytime."

This coming from Sam and Fermat. Daniel was far too pixilated to drive the teacher away, despite the urgent need for a conference. At last, though, she hoisted her bag and wandered off, and they had the red-carpeted hall to themselves. In her glittering wake, Sam and Fermat traded glances, barely keeping the grins off their faces. Noting Daniel's rapt expression, they chorused,

_"Awwwww….!"_

"Shut up!" he whispered furiously, snapping out of it like he'd bitten down on tinfoil. "It's… it's purely professional! I'm an avid fan of historical fiction!"

"Or of history professors," Sam joked slyly. "Methinks the lad doth experience the fullness of hormones, and respondeth accordingly. Yea, even as the small number of his years doth bid him."

Fermat had never seen quite such an interesting blush; somewhere between aubergine and garnet, he thought. Partly to mollify his humiliated friend, he said,

"No… p- problem, Daniel. You… you'll get b- back to her, after the trap… _with _your shield, not… not _on _it. You'll stride out to v- victory, after… p- parting… with:

_True, a new mistress now I chase,_

_the first foe in the field;_

_and with a stronger faith embrace,_

_a sword, a horse, a shield._

_Yet, this inconstancy is such,_

_as thou, too, shalt adore;_

_I could not love you, Dear, so much,_

_loved I not Honour more."_

And he closed with a big, sword-type flourish. (Oddly enough, Fermat could sing andspeak poetry without stumbling over words, and the Royalist poet Lovelace had long been a favorite source of on-the-spot quotation.)

Sam shook his head, but it worked. A weak smile diluted Daniel's angry flush, and the red drained away like bathwater.

"Well… maybe not all _that._ I'm writing computer scenarios, not fighting the good fight. But…" his usual rapid-fire energy surged to the fore again, as they shouldered their bags and headed through the doors of Blake Hall. Outside lay the rainy, nearly deserted quad.

"…just wait till you hear it! I scared _myself._ I'm serious! It's got everything; government conspiracies, escaped mental patients, world-wide disasters, a hostage crisis, cyber-punk hacking, _everything! _The Hood's this total, freaking psycho, and… _what?"_

Fermat had made a slight, impatient gesture. The Hood was dead, and, though Daniel wasn't aware of this fact, Five _had_ to be. As the three boys picked their way down the rain-slicked granite steps, scattering starlings, he said,

"I don't kn- know, Daniel. It's… just th- that… the Hood's kind of… disappeared, r- remember? Maybe he's… he's dead, or something. How… how about a d- different… villain?"

Worth a try, anyway. Alan hadn't been altogether open about what had happened to the Hood, and no one with any sense would try to question Mr. Tracy, or Scott. His own father hadn't given him any juicy details, either, deeming Fermat too young for such knowledge. But John was another matter. The astronaut simply wasn't a very good liar. He either froze up, told a short and obvious falsehood, or made do with the truth. That time, he'd selected door number three, and a brief, matter-of-fact explanation.

_"Laser beam, from orbit. No mess, no fuss, no body."_

"Trust me," Daniel was saying, as they hustled across the quad, stomping through each puddle with boyish gusto, "It'll make sense when you hear it out. I couldn't sleep again, last night, so I stayed up till 3:30, writing it all down… _Good afternoon, Sir!"_

This last, the three friends chorused in unison, watching alertly as their white-haired chemistry teacher stalked past. He acknowledged their greeting with a distracted grunt, eyes on the time-slicked flagstones, mind in the past.

Some of his students hinted uncharitably that Mr. Miner had known Sir Isaac Newton personally. Fermat was inclined to doubt this, as Newton had been a confirmed recluse.

Pulling an ancient rain coat tighter 'round his angular frame (the rusty-black garment looked like the product of some bleak, single-digit century), the elderly chemist strode up a set of stairs and into the wrong building, again. Happened at least twice a week. Lemming-like, he walked the same number of steps, made the same exact turns, no matter _which_ door he'd blundered out of. Fortunately, the campus was walled, or they'd have lost Mr. Miner _ages _ago.

The boys shrugged resignedly, and carried on. Someone else would have to rescue Mr. Miner from the laundry room, today. Fermat, Sam and Daniel were occupied.

Slowing just long enough to slap the marble pedestal upon which dripped Josiah Wharton's scowling bronze statue, the boys hurried on to Stanton Hall. The first tantalizing breaths of dinner were filling the air, mingling with the scents of wet stone, black earth and old-growth forest.

Ordinarily, Fermat would have paused to take it all in. Now, though, meal (and chapel!) stood between him, and Daniel's scenario, which he could begin rendering once the flash drive was handed over. Fermat groaned internally, jamming his hands in the pockets of his navy blazer. Three hours to go…! An _eternity!_ Very much, he needed a distraction.

So, as they entered Stanton, sniffing appreciatively at the rich odors of baking bread and roasting meats, Fermat whipped out his phone and pressed the 'retrieve' key.

_Madrid-_

Anika didn't keep him waiting long, but it would have been worth twice the time, regardless. She looked, in a word, _stunning._ Gone were the leotard, hand wraps and loose chignon, traded for a pale pink dress and ballet flats. The bit… cloth, elastic, or whatever… holding her brown hair in its sleek knot was decorated with tiny white flowers. She might have had a touch of makeup on, though he couldn't be sure. At any rate, her long lashes seemed especially dark against those green eyes, and her cheeks and lips retained a faint, rosy blush. Natural or not, the effect was most charming.

Skipping lightly up to him across the gymnasium floor, she took both of Gordon's hands in her own, then asked,

"How do I look?"

Something… had someone else asked him nearly the same question…? Gordon gave himself a quick shake. Hardly mattered now, did it? Nevertheless, he stumbled over the words, as though the same response was not allowable.

"Beaut… lovely." And he meant it, especially when the lass bounced up and kissed his cheek (despite her coach's wrathful glower).

"Quite puts me in th' shade, anyhow."

For, Gordon still wore his athletic gear; jacket, t-shirt, shorts and trainers. Anika smiled at him, or rather, she brightened further.

"For the next time, you dress better," she chided playfully, adding, "this time, is wonderful enough that you are here, even in… in a pillow case."

"Thanks f'r th' permission," Gordon joked, putting an arm across her back, and steering her toward the street doors. "I'll be sure t' mind th' thread count, Ang… Anika."

_'Angel'_, he'd almost called her, but stopped himself. It felt wrong, somehow; as though 'Angel' was someone else.

They headed outside, to an ox-like bellow of,

_"Back by curfew! Or, no more boy, ever!"_

Prince of a fellow, Bela Stepanovic. How he'd been left off the short list of Her Royal Highness' official suitors, Gordon couldn't imagine.

Outside, it was growing dark, the day's blazing heat mellowing to a pleasanter, caramel-y warmth. He turned to her, at the top of the stairs, meaning to cross check plans for the evening. She surprised him with a sudden, honeyed kiss, placing her hands upon his shoulders (the sunburn stung, but he hardly noticed), and tip-toeing up to brush her mouth against his.

As neither broke off immediately, it lasted awhile, and went deeper. For a moment, memory and desire, the fierce longing to enter into that tightest and most loving of embraces, took over, and he pulled the lass closer.

She smelled of something light and floral, and her body, made slim and muscular by gene-doping and hormone shots, trembled against his. With one hand, she stroked the back of his neck, with the other arm, she encircled his waist.

It felt wonderful to be wanted, but… Gordon broke off and held her away. Anika's confused, worried expression told him that she feared she'd been too 'forward'. It wasn't like that, though. Not at all.Only that, despite the attitudes of Alan, Royce, McMahon, and nearly everyone else he knew, Gordon didn't just want to get into her knickers. He wanted to find out who she was, not simply what she felt like. Stupid, no doubt, but he'd always been a bit thick where the lasses were concerned.

Anika must have read something in his hazel eyes (almost amber, now, in the fading sunlight), for she smiled again. The year before, in the heat and glory of the Olympics, she'd given the red-haired boy everything, only to lose him suddenly, without explanation. Now, he'd returned for her, and that was absolutely all that mattered.

Pinching the tip of her nose, Gordon put an arm across her back, then walked with Anika down the stairs.

"Dinner first, then?" he asked.

"Si, gracies," she replied, resting her head against his side. Together, they entered the fragrant, noisy evening, intent on a first real date. "That would sound very nice."

"Brilliant. I know a club where they serve… not English food, no one here's _that _thick… but American, anyhow, which isn't quite as dreadful as you've probably heard."

She giggled.

"In Portland…!"

"Well, no… that was none of the best, but it was made in bulk, f'r foreigners, and… Right. Never mind. American's out."

At the bottom of the stairs, they turned left, comparing notes on food, sport and the intervening year.

Eventually, they found a place, not-so-subtly modeled after a fast-food restaurant. (McDonald's, actually, though the arches were the wrong color, they served spirits, and the waiters wore roller-blades. Never spilt a thing, either. Impressive.) Inside, all was loud music, bright colors, and hungry folk jostling for a table, bribe money in hand.

The fact that both Gordon and Anika were gold medalists scored them a semi-private booth, and effusive service. In _English._

Seated in their tucked-away spot (and 'theirs' it remained, for a long time afterward), Gordon pretended to study the special menu, while calling back everything he knew about Anika Peralta and food. She'd sat at his side, rather than across the table, yet avoided looking at the pictured comestibles. Not unlike his brother, John, she had some dining… issues. Not the same sort, though.

At length he said, to the (marvelously) King's English-speaking waiter,

"I'd like the hamburger sandwich with cheese, lettuce, tomato and…" brief hesitation, as he groped through the past, "mayonnaise…?"

At his side, Anika made a small gesture, brushing against him.

"Right, then. Mayonnaise. Also, fried potatoes, an orange soda and, afterward, a dish of vanilla…? Vanilla ice cream, please."

"Yes, Sir," the dark-haired waiter smiled, punching the order into his small keypad. He was about Gordon and Anika's age, attending university, probably, and doubtless close to broke.

"And, for the young lady, Sir?"

He quietly handed Gordon a slip of note paper, which the swimmer signed, after a brief glance at the fellow's name tag:

_Thanks for everything, Juan, and best of luck in the future._

_Gordon David Tracy_

The paper was handed back, and pocketed, and dinner was suddenly on the house. For Anika, who seemed to be occupied with sorting the contents of her small handbag, he ordered,

"Glass of iced water for the lady, please, and an extra set of plates."

"Very good, Sir. It will be right out, and if there is anything else you need in the meantime, please signal, and one of us will come at once."

"Thanks, Juan." He startled the waiter by offering a handshake. "…and call me Gordon."

He was just a swimmer, after all, not the Pope. The menu vanished, together with a very pleased Juan, and Anika could talk, again. She told him of her village and family in rugged Catalonia; of how proud they'd been, when she medaled, to see their state's colors raised alongside the E.U. flag.

"My mother, she try to call me, after, but I was… I mean, _we _were…"

"Busy, yes."

Gordon couldn't help smiling at the memory.

_"And _distracted." What, with someone hammering away at the door, it was a wonder he'd got anything accomplished.

Anika bit her lip, laughing silently, and buried her face against his shoulder. _(Sunburn, again, dammit!)_ He shifted her about a little, to relieve the sting, which led to another kiss, this one slower, more exploratory.

Then Juan arrived with the food and plates. Anika withdrew again, looking everywhere but at the table. Gordon thanked the departing waiter, then very carefully took up his silverware and cut the slenderest imaginable slice from the still-sizzling cheeseburger. Onto the second plate it went, together with three of the French fries. No… on better thought, he removed one of the fried potato pieces. Too much.

Putting some tomato ketchup onto the plate for her, from a bottle Juan had kindly provided, Gordon slid the food over to his companion. Daring to look over, Anika gazed at the manageably tiny portion like he'd offered her a sip from the Holy Grail. Then, slowly, almost guiltily, she began to eat.

Gordon snapped his food down without pausing to breathe, indeed, hardly seeming to chew. Needless to say, he finished before Anika, who was now dipping a fried potato in ketchup and delicately, one tiny bite at a time, consuming it.

She ate like someone who at once craved and dreaded food, someone enslaved to the locker room scale, and the implacable demands of her sport. Gordon had reserved a french fry, and quietly added it to her plate when the originals finally vanished. In this way, she got three down, plus the hamburger sliver, and a few sips of orange soda.

When the ice cream arrived, he gave her a small spoonful, then another. Just like the second time they'd eaten together, at the Olympic Village café. The fact that he understood, that he cared enough to accommodate her, meant an awful lot to the lass, who was deeply grateful.

Actually, his mum, toward the end, had lost most of her appetite. One-size-fits-all chemotherapy had seen to that. Gordon had done something similar, then, cutting her food into tiny bits, which he presented just one at a time. The hell of it was, he'd eased her way out, never realizing until too late that there was money available to heal her, in the account she'd secretly saved up for him.

He might have engaged physicians who actually had the time and resources to care… if only he'd known who he was, and what that meant. Instead, he took care of a pretty gymnast, promising himself that if matters ever became permanent between them, she'd want for nothing. Ever.

After dinner, they saw an extremely confusing film. Made in China, apparently, it was subtitled in very bad English,then dubbed in Spanish. The car crashes and gunfights spoke for themselves, of course, but the plot…?

They lost interest pretty quickly, and soon stopped watching altogether, distracted by other things. The credits rolled long before either of them wanted to leave, but there was curfew, and Bela, to think about. So, out they went; hair a little mussed, clothing a little un-tucked.

On their way back to her dorm, talk turned to Gordon, to why he'd dropped so completely from sight.

"I was thinking," she confessed sadly, "that you are not coming back. That you forget about me."

Time to face the scoreboard…

"Well…, I did have a bit of memory loss f'r a time, because… I got into a fight, as you might say."

Anika looked up at him, her green eyes wide in the glow of neon and street lamps. Music and drugged smoke swirled out of the dance clubs they passed, pulsing from the open windows of parked cars. As they cut through an outdoor café, she asked,

"Why youstart fight, Gordon?"

He said, the words coming slow and hard,

"Because I _had _to."

She held tight to his arm while they pushed along a crowded intersection. Then,

"But, you win the fight, yes?"

Gordon stopped walking for an instant. For him, just then, the crowd, the noise, the harsh-bright artificial glow seemed to disappear. Nothing remained but the lass, and a painful answer.

"No," he admitted, at last. "No, I didn't."

Anika did that female thing, the one lasses always seemed to excel at. She simply kissed him, firmly shutting the door on the past.

_Washington, D.C., the bunker-_

Success, of sorts. He'd gotten the idea, Shr3ddr had, of writing a few exploits and launching them against the FBI and WorldGov, under some of the internet handles he'd uncovered. The third name he tried, Anarchik, yielded interesting results.

After Shr3ddr's virus penetrated WorldGov security, triggering a massive power failure in Madrid, the feds started sniffing around. An hour later, maybe two, an email message zipped from Secaucus, New Jersey, to… somewhere else on the grid, far beyond Shr3ddr's ken. Fortunately, the sender was nervous enough to fire off a duplicate, which the hacker's packet-sniffing program intercepted at once. The message was short, and mysterious.

_36: 911: A_

The '911' was obvious enough, as was the 'A'. Anarchik, spooked by the rising heat, was calling for help. From whom, though? What, or who, was '36'?

Shr3ddr applied every twist, trick and Jeopardy skill he could think of, talking to himself, because no one else was around.

"36."

"What is… six squared? No. Too obvious…"

Leaning back in his work station chair, he lofted another sharpened pencil stub at the acoustic tiled ceiling, where it stuck, together with a forest of others. The graphite swords of Damocles.

"36."

"What is… the fourth multiple of 9? No. Too trivial…"

He had a headache, was beginning to see things in the black shadows around him.

"36."

"What is… theatomic numberfor… Krypton."

Krypton? Or, maybe, _Kryptoni3n?_ Score! Though he couldn't follow up, at first, being unsure where the packet was headed. So, he waited, and he listened. Twenty minutes later, a response appeared, sliding along the data stream tagged to Anarchik's IP address. Another breakthrough, but so tightly encrypted that Shr3ddr could make no sense of it.

"What the hell…?"

He'd never seen or heard of such a coding language. Weird, almost without syntax, and utterly unique. The characters seemed to change meaning with every keystroke, following some bizarre pattern that Shr3ddr couldn't comprehend. Uncrackable, no matter what program he threw at it.

The only clue he had was the messages' relative timing. Anarchik responded almost immediately, her (?) three messages following within seconds of each hail. Kryptoni3n, though, took about 20 minutes to answer her. Indicating… what?

That he was far away? That he was _really _far away? Maybe even…

Shr3ddr thought back to the NASA updates he'd been casually following. Thought back to the twenty minute time delay they were constantly apologizing for, and laughed aloud, thirst and stress cracking his voice.

"Gotcha, you cagey little sonuvabitch."

Time to query the Mars Mission database, and play 'catch the Tiger'.


	60. Chapter 60: Alone

60

_Tracy Island- prior to Brains' slight "error":_

TinTin sat curled in an armchair, in her own small room, hugging a blue teddy bear. She alternately cried and stared out the window at a restless sea, wondering what to do next.

The man she loved… handsome, heroic and strong, gentle and protective (in a word- _Virgil)_… did not love her. Not the way she'd dreamt, anyway. Instead, he saw himself as an older brother, one whose romantic situation was already tangled enough.

The girl hiccupped, swallowing a sob, and huddled tighter around the emptily smiling toy. He wasn't much to look at, the bear; hand-me-down product of some long-gone souvenir shop, she thought. But, his presence was a sort of stand-in for Gordon Tracy, the other half of her problem.

It was a deeply painful turnabout that she'd now been hit with exactly the same frustration faced by the Olympic swimmer, her best friend. He loved her, and she knew it; found the fact flattering and comfortable and solid. The wind might shift, or the currents run cold, but Gordon would always be there, ready to catch the girl when she fell.

She ought to love him… certainly he deserved it… but the thought of a physical relationship with him confused her deeply. As if, by lying down with him, she'd place herself in a different category. A thoroughly disposable one. TinTin had been far enough into his mind to know that Gordon was no stranger to women. That he made, probably, a better and more constant friend than he ever would a boyfriend.

Marriage…? That was another matter, entirely. She knew that her father hoped for a match, and that Jeff Tracy would not be adverse to her 'merger' with any one of his sons.

For a moment, she considered the others, as though she were fanning out a handful of trading cards. There was Scott, the eldest. Business-like, responsible and intelligent, he was a leader in every sense of the word, but terribly wrong-footed around women. With his black hair, chiseled features and fighter-pilot calm, Scott could have mowed quite a swathe through the female population of Polynesia, had girls been less of a mystery to him. On the whole, it was little short of a miracle that he'd succeeded so well with Cindy, and TinTin wished them both well.

Next came John, secretive and aloof, his beautiful exterior concealing a core of steel and shadow. John Tracy was like a golden tom-cat; content to stretch out in the sunshine, eyes half-open and tail-tip twitching, until, moved by some inner impulse, he stole away again. In short, he belonged to no-one, and returned when it pleased him. _Definitely _not.

And Alan…? A whirlwind of hormones and vanity, all too aware that he was good-looking and young and wealthy; that what didn't already belong to him could be ordered up at a moment's notice. He'd tried to kiss her, once, and she'd laughed at him (nerves, mostly). TinTin wasn't sure he even remembered the incident, or his earlier feelings for her. There were, as he would put it, too many other fish in the sea.

Ups and downs with Alan she could accept because, oddly enough, he mattered less. He was loud, self-centered and aggravating, but not vital. TinTin could go two weeks without speaking to the youngest Tracy, and hardly notice, for sooner or later he'd come strutting back, cocksure as ever.

Gordon's long silence was more worrisome. In all the time she'd known him, the red-haired young man had never gone _this _long without at least sending a text message or email. What had happened? Was he angry? Or in trouble? Ought she to call?

He'd seemed so distant, during the family 'conferences'… but, just now, she very much needed his warmth and steadiness (and, whether she returned it or not, his love). Closing her eyes, TinTin buried her face against the bear, wetting its blue fur. A sudden thought came to her, then; that she could go to Madrid, perhaps wheedle Alan into coming along, as well.

All at once energized, TinTin kissed the bear's plush little nose, and uncoiled herself from the soft chair.

"Very well, Mon Coeur, as something has most certainly gone amiss in Espagne, I shall come to help you, bringing, also, the so terrible Alan."

She'd have summoned young Fermat, as well, had she been able to think of a way to free him from his school without arousing attention. As Alan had said more than once, when the four of them banded together, they were nearly unstoppable. More than Scott, John and Virgil could deal with, at any rate. Much more.

Walking across the rug to her narrow little bed, TinTin placed the teddy bear back on his accustomed perch, her pillow. If plans counted for anything at all, she was as good as on her way.

_Mars; (low hills, rocky terrain, flying sand, and trouble)-_

The storm had filled half the sky, a boiling, red-brown wall pierced by flashes of brilliant lightning. The wind's shrill whistle had risen, meanwhile, to something ragged and pained, like a distant, despairing shriek. The light had changed, too, vanishing away as morning was eaten alive around them. From coffee stain, to marmalade to dense, crepuscular smog, the day turned suddenly dim and murderous.

Roger Thorpe, eyes on their stony route, mind very much elsewhere, flipped on the tractor's headlamps. Even with extra lighting, he could barely make out the two power suits that strode alongside. They were just a few hundred meters from the supply cylinder, but the dust cloud seemed likely to reach it, first. Worried, the Marine looked over at Pete McCord, seated beside him in the tractor's dark, vibrating cab.

"Skipper," he said, "the girls haven't got a lot of cover. If they hang back here with us, they'll be caught in this shit. The suit joints'll freeze up. Upshot is, they've gotta get to one of the cylinders, before the storm hits." _They wouldn't like it much, though._

Nodding briskly, Pete keyed on his helmet mike.

"Doctors, make for the depot, double-time. No questions; just shut up and _move."_

The power suits were faster than the tractor on Martian terrain, but far more vulnerable, their operators terribly exposed. That should have been perfectly obvious, but Linda balked, once again butting heads with the mission commander.

"Pete, if you think for a _minute_ that we're going to just…"

"No," he cut her off, "I _don't _think. I order. Now, get your ass to shelter, and save my goddam equipment. We'll follow you."

Just like the milk incident, only worse. Linda Bennett swallowed hard. Whatever she thought of Pete McCord's 'chivalry', there was no arguing with his logic, or the oncoming storm, pummeling winds, buffeting sand and ball lightning. Already, she and Kim Cho were finding it hard to remain on course and upright. If they left now, they could reach the cylinder, taking shelter within while their stubborn, mulish crewmates caught up… when and if they could.

She knew, objectively, that going ahead was the only thing to do; that if the tractor were to be buried in sand, it would take _both_ fully operational power suits to free the thing. But, she still felt like a coward and deserter.

As windborne particles pinged and scoured at her suit's armored flanks, Linda said,

"Moving, Commander. We'll keep the porch lights on and the doors open."

"The hell you will!" Already, the storm was interfering with communications, breaking up Pete's transmission. "Shut…rs. We… ock."

The last thing she heard was what Pete had always referred to, jokingly, as the 'secret knock'. _(Shave and a haircut… two bits)_

"Right," Linda responded heavily, hoping they'd received her. Kim had made a private transmission of her own. To Roger, no doubt.

As the ugly, dark cloud reared itself above them, she and Kim Cho raced for the cylinder, barely visible now in occasional flashes of violet lightning. All the world was turning to blackness and alien, howling cold.

She turned her suit's lights on, and throttled forward, the thunder and slam of metal on rock transformed by chips and wiring to the sensations of a gut-stretching run. She got a stitch in her side, and felt winded, even; but the repaired knee held up.

In the open, lurching cockpit, Linda was slammed repeatedly against her seat straps and control panel. Visibility sank like a rock from poor to abysmal, but she still had the cylinder's intermittent beacon to home in on, and her heads-up display provided a terrain map, of sorts. She was able to avoid the worst boulders and pitfalls, at least, reaching the massive cylinder just as a tornadic roar and utter blackness descended.

Guided by the helmet's glowing map, Linda found and pressed the outer airlock key. A big, round door irised open, then stuck half-way, jammed by dust and bitter cold. She and Kim Cho had to contort themselves to squeeze through the 30-foot opening, deeply scraping one of the petals in the process.

They found themselves in a cramped (huge) antechamber of polished metal, lit only by their suits' blinking amber running lights. The inner airlock was shut fast, the storage area evidently retaining its integrity. Linda checked her sensors, scanning as much of her surroundings as conditions allowed. Didn't learn much, though.

The tractor had dropped out of her rear view field; just a little behind them, probably, though communications had become all but impossible, even between Linda and Cho. The two women pushed further within, static arcing between the airlock floor and their mechanized feet with every step.

Pivoting on limbs that ground and squeaked in protest, Linda started to hit the 'airlock close' key, but Dr. Kim moved to block her. Using the sign language alphabet that Pete had taught them, and the loading machine's giant hands, Cho spelled out,

_'Wait… please… coming.'_

Though she couldn't see her friend's face very clearly, Linda had the sudden feeling that Cho was crying. Dust billowed in, crackling with static. Outside, the wind clawed and howled, while Pete and Roger and John struggled to reach them.

_Elsewhere, another time-_

Somewhat shakily, he crossed the concrete floor, to a trough-like sink, and the scarred sliver of metal that had been bolted to the wall above it for a mirror. What he saw there, scratched and flecked with corrosion though the reflection appeared, was almost gut-punch traumatic.

He put a thin hand up, pushed the hair away from his eyes, and stared. _Everything, even his clothing, was right. Or... almost_

"God damn," he whispered, words nearly drowned by the sounds of someone retching noisily in a nearby stall. "…what the hell did she _do?"_

Cold, suddenly, and searching for answers, he tugged up the two tee shirts, exposing a bit of one side. Had to pull away the waist band of his jeans for a close enough look, but… nothing. Smooth skin. The scar was gone, or had somehow never existed.

Shoving his over-large clothing back into place, he tried to think around sudden shards of dagger-like worry. Outwardly, though, he remained calm. This wasn't a safe place to show fear and uncertainty.

But the others; where the hell were they, and in what condition? He couldn't have survived alone. They _had _to have made it, somehow.

The question was, how could he find them, without making things worse?


	61. Chapter 61: Storm

_Oh, well... a little more._

61

_Madrid, Spain:_

Gordon escorted Anika up the stairs of the Santa Clara women's dorm, an arm across her slim shoulders. She was wearing his team jacket, partly to ward off the growing chill (Madrid cooled rapidly, once the sun set), partly as a mark of belonging. It wasn't a ring, or anything, but it mattered.

If one of her teammates asked, she'd shrug and say (in Spanish, so they'd be sure to understand),

"Es de mi novio." ("Oh, it's my boyfriend's.")

Carelessly, just as though the words _didn't_ cause a very sunburst within her chest. That would be tomorrow, though, or the next day. Now…

At the top of the steps, just outside the main doors, they paused. He wasn't allowed any farther, and the evening's farewells would have to be said here.

From the city around them came noise and music, with animated adverts flashed onto clouds, buildings and even the moon. In the midst of all this, Gordon faced Anika. She stepped eagerly into his embrace, eyes wide, lips slightly parted. Pulled close, she fit like the other piece of a puzzle, like something missing that had finally been found. He kissed her again, losing track of everything but the lass; her scent and feel and slight motions against him.

Then someone… Bela… pounded upon the doors of the women's dormitory from inside, nearly wrenching the glass panels from their hinges. Just like old times.

With a deep sigh, and slightly pained smile, he pulled away from the girl. She gazed at him, her expression one of love and complete trust. In a way, it was almost frightening to have someone look at him with such obvious devotion. Odd that he hadn't really noticed before, in far-off Portland. Maybe he'd simply chosen not to.

Tracing a gentle forefinger along her delicate collarbones, Gordon said,

"Tomorrow, then? After practice?"

Anika nodded, her smile as bright as the city, abruptly, _wasn't._ For everywhere, all at once, the lights had gone out, leaving Madrid in sudden darkness.

Anika made a small, puzzled sound. Surprised, she might be, but the lass was no coward.

"Gordon," she asked him, as he placed himself between her and the noise of horns and crashes, "What has happening?"

"I dunno, Love; power outage. Nothin' serious, I expect."

But such things _never _happened, anymore. Computer networks and a world-wide energy grid saw to constant, ready power.

Unless there'd been some sort of attack, he couldn't think why the entire city would go dark at once.

Then, with a loud click, the glass doors unlocked and swung open. Two massive, hairy arms shot out, seized Gordon and Anika, and yanked them inside the dormitory. Bela.

Gordon tried to twist away, but his shirt was held fast in a thick, meaty paw. From deeper within the building, he could hear frightened, girlish voices calling for light.

"Um… thanks f'r th' assist, I'm sure." Still pinned, he was about to start feeling around for pressure points… "But I'd best be goin'. There may be somethin' I c'n do t' help."

In the darkness, Bela Stepanovic snorted rudely, releasing Gordon. Patting his own pockets, the beefy gym coach located a book of matches (from a local tapas bar, as it happened), and lit one.

With a faint scrape and sudden golden flare, his ugly, mustached face swam into view. Perhaps, after all, the blackout hadn't been such a bad thing.

"So, now you are hero, along with swimmer?" Bela scoffed, nearly putting the tiny match flame out.

A security guard strode up, swinging the yellow beam of a battery-operated torch like a blind man's white cane. Stepanovic greeted the young fellow, accepting a spare light and shouting encouragement to his frightened team, before rounding on Gordon.

"You have medal for pool, Boy, not for battle. Let police do job, and stay inside."

Gordon bristled at the bigger man's scornful tone. He might have made a fight of it, but Anika placed a quick, light hand on his arm.

"Por favor, Gordon, listen him? Is nothing for to do outside but getting hit with cars."

Gordon shifted his weight a bit. In the yellow torch gleam, she looked both proud and concerned, as though the effort would be heroic, but suicidal; as if she expected no less of him, but was bound to prevent it, all the same.

Well… maybe there was another way. Reaching into his left shorts pocket, Gordon dug out his cell phone. If the power outage was some sort of computer problem, he knew just who to call for help.

_Mars-_

They waited, feeling the walls of the supply cylinder flex and tremble around them. Ten minutes, fifteen, then twenty… and still no sign of the tractor. Meanwhile, dust in tall, abrasive drifts was piling against the sides of the airlock, insinuating itself deeper between the petals of the irised hatch. Time wasn't just short, it was all but gone.

The door and suits would soon be completely inoperable, yet, as the shrieking blackness went on and on, neither Linda nor Cho could bring themselves to attempt sealing the airlock.

_'One more minute… just another ten seconds…'_ they'd think, looking, not at each other, but out into chaos.

Then Linda heard something, or thought she did. It was difficult to tell through all the interference, but it sounded like Pete McCord.

_"Doct… -ead me? Can't… -ind…"_

Kim Cho had heard it, too. Her power suit twisted rustily about to face Linda's, both women trying desperately to boost and return the signal. No luck, and no further hails.

Doctor Bennett, in one of those terribly cold, precise moments where everything becomes flash-bulb clear, realized that the men were lost.

"Oh, my God…" she whispered to herself. "No comm, no beacons, no visibility. They could pass within ten feet of this thing, and never see it!" And the storm might continue for weeks. Trapped in the tractor, buried in dust, their air would gradually foul, and they'd die.

Kim was alphabet-signing, again, her suit's big, clumsy hands aping the letters with all the grace of a back-hoe clanking through Swan Lake.

"Make… a… signal."

_Bingo! _A light of some sort. But, how? Fire was out of the question; not enough oxygen to support regular combustion.

Perhaps something useful lay hid among the supplies and construction gear?

The inner airlock was keyed open, its irising petals seeming to move with malicious slowness. A rush of long-pent nitrogen gas shrilled past them both, equalizing the pressure and nearly toppling Linda, whose reaction time was definitely headed south. Too much dust in the joints, probably.

Inside the main storage area, boxes and crates lay everywhere, tumbled and strewn by the force of the cylinder's rough landing. Snapped elastic cargo webbing had collapsed to the floor, a snare for unwary mechanized feet.

Somehow, they avoided tripping long enough to locate a box of giant emergency flares, the sort that were meant to be seen from orbit. An astronaut, alone and in trouble… lost in Valles Marineris, say… could trigger one of these things when Global Surveyor passed overhead, summoning help.

A simple, timed fuse would set it off, creating a distress signal like the eruption of a magnesium volcano. Exceedingly tough to miss.

Linda pulled four of the devices out of their crate. They resembled a cross between old-style road flares and cannon, being about six feet in length and colored a business-like black.

Cho got still more, as many as her power suit's arms would hold. Over-kill, Linda thought, letting the matter pass.

Instead, a hastily signed conference sketched the outlines of their plan. Arms loaded with pyrotechnics, the women left the inner storage compartment, resealing it behind them. No sense spoiling the groceries.

Linda then set her bounty on the airlock floor and ducked through the half-open portal. Immediately, wind and dust enveloped her in a black and swirling shroud. She seized hold of a hatch panel, driving big metal fingers deep into the stuff of the door.

Cho followed moments later, 'brailing' her way along Linda's outstretched suit arms until she could lock wrists with her friend and inch her own power suit still further, one giant hand holding her 'candle'.

Then, while Linda tried repeatedly to raise the tractor on every available comm channel, Cho used her suit's last grinding movements to plant and ignite the first flare.

_Pointed end down… safety cap off… set short-range trigger…_ _go!_

She and Linda had the sense to look away, and their faceplates darkened automatically, but the flare's sun-like stab _still _hurt; an inaudible, heatless ice-pick to the optic nerve.

"Please…" Linda pled quietly, shielding her eyes. "Please be looking this way, somebody."

_Less than a quarter of a mile away-_

"What was that?" John asked aloud, raising his voice to be heard above the hissing, scraping dust and shrieking wind. The tractor treads, mounted separately and capable of independent movement, gave the vehicle a rough ride, and made looking outside difficult. Not that there had been much to see, so far.

"What was _what?"_ Commander McCord took a break from his uselesstransmitting, to ask.

John shook his head, shifting around in his seat for a better angle. The side windows weren't positioned very well.

"Nothing, probably. Just… thought I saw a flash. Lightning, maybe, or a break in the storm, if we've somehow gotten lucky."

Roger followed his friend's glance. There it was, again. A pure white gleam, steadier and longer-lasting than anything native to Mars.

"Hell, no, AO'," he joked, brown face wreathed in sudden smiles, "that's no moon, it's a space station!"

_"What?"_ Pete demanded testily, having followed next to nothing of Roger's English-Klingon-Samoan muddle.

"A signal," John clarified, smiling faintly, despite the feeling that he was being crushed into an ever-shrinking corner of his own mind.

The Marine hauled the steering yoke around, sending their tractor into a slow, lurching turn.

"Looks like the runway lights just cut on, Skipper. Changing course to bring us in." And then, a bit lower, but no less heart-felt, "That's my girl."

_Washington D.C., below ground and abandoned-_

There was only one Princeton grad on the Ares III crew; their pilot, John Tracy. Shr3ddr examined the guy's official portrait and bio. About the right age, genius IQ, computer background, _and _the son of Jeff Tracy, who certainly had the money and tech to run something like International Rescue. Almost certainly, the hacker had bagged his man.

Now he faced the tricky part, the really tough decision. Namely, what to do next? If he gave his employer the information, Shr3ddr rendered himself, in one stroke, expendable. He wasn't a fool. The man who'd hired him didn't like loose ends, _or_ payouts. Following up the odd rumor to two, Shr3ddr had learned of his employer's attempts to sabotage the Mars mission, and of what had happened to the agents involved. Dead, each and every one.

Important life lesson, there. The bunker's power could quite easily be shut off, again, leaving Shr3ddr trapped, with no way to call for help.

"Face the truth, Fielding," he grunted, wishing ardently for something to drink, "You're screwed. Give him what he wants, and he'll leave you here to die; no ifs, ands or butts, except yours, in a concrete coffin."

One of the pencil stubs fell from the ceiling, clattering to the floor as if agreeing with him. Great. Well, he could always pull a double-cross… Contact IR, and offer to trade their fair-haired boy's security for some hush money and a quick rescue… What the hell, huh? Worth a try.

Picking an official law enforcement computer system, one the Thunderbirds would be certain to monitor, Shr3ddr jacked in, typing,

"Hey, fellas… a little help, here?"


	62. Chapter 62: LockUp

_Giddy with near completion! Thanks, Tikatu, Varda's Servantand Agent Five, for the kind and helpful comments._

62

_Mars-_

The incredible, suffocating dark had come with a wind that keened and moaned unendingly, for all the world like a lost soul begging for help. There were constant scratching sounds, as well, against the quivering flanks of tractor and cylinder, both. Not so bad, in itself, but when it wouldn't _stop…!_

You felt like letting the damn cat in, fixing that drippy spigot, or throwing something heavy at the neighbor's howling dog. Except that you couldn't. There was nothing at all to do, but sit and wait. Far too dangerous to go outside; the suit joints and treads might seize up, jammed by flying dust. As Pete McCord put it (quoting Dr. Seuss),

_"So all we could do was to sit, sit, sit, sit,_

_And we did not like it,_

_Not one little bit."_

The men had tracked Dr. Kim's signal, turning their low-slung, rumbling tractor to follow each briefly-glimpsed flash of silver light. Where ordinary short wave and RF beacons couldn't get through, the emergency flares lit a torch that astronomers spotted from Earth.

At the cylinder itself, Linda Bennett and Kim Cho had been forced to climb down from their immobilized power suits, then fasten a guide rope from flare to access hatch. Sand scoured at helmet and armor, gnawing and biting less than two inches away from their faces and flickering heads-up displays. It was like deep-sea diving in rusty quicksand.

They neither saw nor heard the tractor until it was nearly on top of them, cresting a rise, glimmering with violet static. Linda and Cho ducked behind a massive robot leg, keeping tense hold of the guide rope. Getting lost now meant almost certain, lingering death.

The tractor drew up as close to the flares as possible, and the men disembarked; Pete first, then Roger, and John.

Eye-searing effulgence, masked occasionally by thick swirls of gritty dust, lent the scene an almost strobe-like effect. In the partial shelter of Cho's power suit, the group reunited, then followed the guide rope to safety. Almost.

Last in line, John kept a one-handed grip on the vibrating tether. Ordinarily, he'd have felt it sliding along his gloved palm, but the hard suit's cybernetics had been largely shut down. Otherwise, he'd have been treated to the wire-brush sensation of airborne sand.

In bits and flashes, he could see Roger's bulky form outlined in St. Elmo's fire, his own sparking glove, a tiny portion of steel rope, and the reflective interior of his face plate. Every so often the heads-up display would flicker to life, projecting a jumbled hash of alphanumerics. Wounded nonsense, mostly… until he received an unexpected message.

Splintered, cascading symbols reassembled in the green display field; fractured data forming gradual patterns. Not in English. Not in _any_ language he had experience of. Yet, somehow, John understood.

:_ Provide Access:_ it commanded.

At the same instant, his hard suit locked up, and the reserve oxygen tank vented. All the air he had was what little remained in his helmet. His crewmates went on, not realizing that one of their number had fallen behind.

Again, the message, in alien symbols now crystal sharp and diamond clear. Not flat lines, but rotating polyhedra, their speed, axis of rotation, rate and depth carrying as much information as shape and order did. Incredibly complex, and strangely beautiful.

_: Provide Access:_

It wanted the same thing from him that it had tried to wrest from Five, passage to Earth's computer systems. Newly reassembled after John's first attack, only a lucky dust storm now prevented the AI from simply jumping to Earth across open comm channels. That, and the pilot's slowly fading resistance.

Lump of grey matter… couple handfuls of neurons… some particularly stubborn chemicals… not a lot, really. Not when compared to something like _that._

If someone said to you, 'Don't think about blue elephants', you'd be hard-pressed to consider anything _else_. Just then, prisoned like a bug in amber by his locked hard suit, in the midst of a storm, some 46 million miles from home, John Tracy was doing his damndest not to think of blue elephants, _or_ computer access codes.

All at once, he understood why Five had 'disappeared'. John was infected, so deeply and insidiously that _any_ contact between them might spread the alien intelligence.

_…From a mirror universe, connected to this one via wormhole, in a past where all physical laws were one. Probes had been sent through the hole, to preserve the lore and knowledge of a dying race. To remake themselves on a likely planet, by using its altered life forms. Only, through a quirk of fate or programming, the probe had selected Mars, not Earth… and been forced to power down, waiting long eons for life that never flowered. Not here. Now, after failing twice, it meant to complete its task…_

But International Rescue was in business to save people, the entire world, if necessary. Even if the battle was fought alone, and never recognized. Even if it killed them.

John said aloud (wasting oxygen, but it hardly mattered at this point),

"Access denied. You're trapped here… with me. The storm could last for months, and once I'm dead, you're finished. Organic wetware falls apart damn quick, after death. Starts to smell bad, too. Enjoy."

The polyhedra shifted a bit, several switching places, reversing spin, or changing size.

_:Provide Access In Return For Continued Existence And Unencrypted Data:_

Like he wanted anything to do with its 'data' after all this! John took a deep, wasteful breath. Might as well make it quick…

"Go directly to hell. Do not pass 'Go', do not collect $200. Put it another way: 'F.O.A.D'. It's been a long day."

And he visualized slamming a hand through the delicately suspended alien symbols. _Damned if they didn't move._

A thought came to him, then. Clearly ridiculous. _Obviously _never work.

With painful concentration, gasping at his helmet's fouled air, John mentally rearranged the pretty shapes. He coded a false message, containing the alien equivalent of:

_-Set User ID_

Then,

_-Set ID to root_

The AI sensed his manipulation, but not its purpose, and failed to respond in time. It had expected capitulation, not a back door hack. From the alien's perspective, John Tracy's species was too primitive for such an assault. Once again, it paid like hell to be underestimated.

And just like that, he was in. For the second time since leaving Princeton, John experienced again the visceral rush of direct interface. No keyboard or processor… no shields at all. Just him, and the victim computer. Probing here and there, selecting very delicately the right set of 'keys', he set and executed the next line of code. Simple and blunt:

_-Shut down_

After all, what was the alien intelligence but a computer? And what did computers do? Once you'd entered the proper command, exactly what you told them to. The AI had no defense against a properly phrased order. Not one that came from within.

'Primitive', maybe. 'Foolish', possibly. 'Stupid', _never._

Deep within his mind, John felt certain changes taking place. Alien files, an infinite array of whirling spheres, began to save, and then close. They froze in place, their speed and orientation branded onto his hypoxic mind.

Then, like a forest fire being put out with a little _'close your eyes and_ _make a wish'_ breath, the spheres began to vanish. They reduced to circles, then glowing line segments. Next, the lines burnt away at both ends, becoming dull red points.

In the end, all that remained was a constellation of ash; of glowering, powered-down stars. Not gone, but 'off'. For the time being, anyway.

_'Strike three…,' _John thought drunkenly, _'Should've taken the walk.'_

He wasn't _that_ shit-hot a pitcher, even after all the baseball games his group had played with the other astronaut hopefuls. Had the alien waited till after the storm to act, things might have gone differently. No cloud of comm-screening dust, and a further weakened human vessel.

John coughed, all but smothering in carbon dioxide. Rather to his surprise, the suit unlocked, allowing him to move again. Then his heads-up display decided to talk to him.

_'Cylinder. Follow rope to cylinder. Go!'_

At nearly the same time, someone bumped him, then knocked at the top of his helmet. It turned out to be Roger, looking damn shiny in all that staticky plastic. That was nice. Just now, John discovered, he didn't really want to be alone. Whether his friend could help him, or not, it was good that he'd shown up.

The Marine used an emergency conduit to patch his own air supply to John's. Almost immediately, canned Nitrox began to circulate, and his temple-stabbing headache packed up and left town. Helluva guy, Roger.

Together, battered this way and that by shifting terrain, the two men trudged blindly along their guide rope. At the cylinder, they were met by three other sparking, hard-suited figures. To touch each other was to send long white arcs of static flaring between them, but John was hauled inside, regardless. They would not, he realized suddenly, have let him die. Even though they weren't brothers, or operatives, either. Weird.

Once the airlock doors were sealed, and a breathable atmosphere generated, the crew un-helmeted. They sat on crates and barrels, gathered in a close circle around a portable heating unit, helmets at their sides (just in case). The heater gave off a little light, along the lines of a small, dim campfire. Most of the cylinder's interior lay wreathed in shadow, a labyrinth of tumbled boxes. There was just enough warmth to keep from freezing, though their breath still misted in the dusty air, and sparkling motes flared and vanished with every gesture. That _smell_ was still present, but he was beginning to get used to it. _Beautiful down-town landfi… Mars._

They'd made quite a party of breaking into the food, but greetings had come first. Between the men, rough hair tousles, 'zaps' and back-of-the-neck grabs, while the women were only slightly more restrained. Doctor Bennett actually kissed his good cheek (not the bandaged one), the brush of her lips leaving a warm spot for some time thereafter. She didn't say anything, though. Very confusing.

Later, over opened cans of absolutely anything edible, the Ares III crew conferenced.

"Suit locked up, I take it?" Pete asked him, around a big mouthful of Spam and soy cheese.

John considered a moment, then nodded. Close enough.

"Electrical interference," he replied quietly. "The cybernetics screwed up on me, then vented the tanks."

As John went back to his chosen picnic fare, cheese pizza, McCord asked another, less subtle, question.

"Everything _else_ okay?"

A second nod, without looking up.

"Yeah, Pete. I'm good." (Kind of wished McCord would drop the third degree, though…)

Fortunately, the conversation soon turned to other matters. How the ladies had ignited their signal, for instance, and what their chances were of getting the power suits restarted. (Pete kept quiet about his not-saved 'goddam equipment'. Something to do with his very saved _life_, probably.)

When to break out the drills and start digging a colony still needed deciding, along with which came first: collecting Martian specimens, or setting up the frozen embryo 'zoo'.

Much to do. But, first, much to eat. They sat, McCord at the head of the group, facing the airlock, with John to his left, and Linda on the right. Roger and Kim shared an up-ended crate across from Pete. The food was lukewarm, at best, but varied and filling. Like Thanksgiving day on a frigid alien world, over canned and boxed bounty.

The food got shared around, and severally sampled. At one point, Roger Thorpe became interested in the 'family-sized' tub of lemon pudding John had turned up.

"Hey," he ventured, leaning forward, "mind if I…?"

Shrugging, John handed it over.

"Go ahead. If you can drink water that's been filtered through five sets of kidneys, eating out of the same bowl isn't going to kill you."

The Marine paused, spoon midway to his open mouth.

"Thanks."

"No problem."

As Cho gazed at the floor, biting her lip, and the other two shook their heads, Roger added,

"Really. I appreciate the imagery, Buddy."

"Any time."

By now, Roger had started grinning, again.

"You must be hell on wheels at family gatherings, AO'."

John cocked an eyebrow.

"Actually, I wear out my welcome pretty quickly. They deny it," he thought for an instant, then shrugged again. "But, if they start to miss me, they can look at the pictures."

The big Samoan grew serious, suddenly. Mostly in Klingon, he demanded,

"You're not planning to pull that shit with us, are you? After all this is over? Disappear, and just mail a damn card? 'Cause I'll hunt you _down _to drag your ass to the wedding, if I have to. And then, every time you don't show up, I'll name another baby after you. Sons, daughters, even cousins and neighbor kids. All 'John', and all mad. You got any clue how _pissed-off_ fifteen or twenty Samoan 'John Juniors' could get?"

Better not to find out, maybe. John Tracy folded his arms and gave the floor a brief smile.

"I won't disappear," he promised.


	63. Chapter 63: Discovery

_Okay. A further re-edit, to match up with later stories. Penultimate chapter, so if nothing else, I'm close._

63

_Departing Tracy Island, prior to the 'Lab Incident'-_

Scott Tracy had been forced to delay the island's mail run for nearly a month. What with being short-staffed and long-tasked (Gordon was in Madrid, and John still farther), flying to Tahiti for snail mail seemed somehow less than vital. Everything _really _important came to them over the internet, anyhow.

They might have paid for regular air mail service, had Tracy Island not held such a dangerous secret. But it did, and, to protect the location of International Rescue, all such traffic had to be discouraged. No airmail, no cruise ships, and damn few visitors. Only the closest family and a few chosen operatives were allowed.

Usually, Scott enjoyed the flight to Papeete and back. This time, things were different. He flew the doctored Learjet 45 with one hand and half his mind, drumming his fingers and worrying with the rest of it.

He was cruising along at 20,000 feet, doing nearly 500 knots. It was late afternoon, and the sun was slowly ripening in the west; getting bigger and redder by the minute. Engine whine and vibration were communicated through his leather seat and steering yoke and the filtered, whispering air. Orange-y soft light painted the pilot and his restless small passenger a uniform shade of gold. Very pretty, had he taken the time to appreciate it.

Scott wanted to hurry. He'd have called in for Shadowbot coverage, and converted the Lear to something a good deal faster, if he could have. With John on Mars and Brains pulling double duty, though, such subterfuges had to be saved for the really critical flights.

_John on Mars…_ Scott shook his head, adjusting the trim of his plane's control surfaces. He remembered when the space shot had seemed heroic and manageable; an historic adventure in the proud tradition of Jeff Tracy's Apollo missions. The reality was much closer to nightmare than glory, however. Day and night, Scott struggled with the ice-water knowledge that his brother was in constant danger, and far out of reach.

Scott frowned, switching IFR channels to bring in Tahiti Center. Brains was doing his level best to create a fast interplanetary drive for Thunderbird 7, but there had so far been many more explosions than launches. Though Scott didn't like to admit it, the situation was tense as hell.

International Rescue had to watch, right along with ten billion other helpless bystanders, as the Ares III crew dodged one bullet after another. Question was, how many rounds had been chambered, and how long could John, and Pete and the rest keep jumping?

Scott made a low, frustrated noise, far removed from his usual, droning calm. His grunt alerted the dog, who turned away from the window and bounded across the cockpit in a musical jingle of tags, landing squarely on Scott's lap.

The pilot rubbed the animal's hairy little head. After all, there was no one around to say, _'I told you so.'_

It was a white and black-spotted Jack Russell Terrier. Sort of cute, in a useless, small animal kind of way, with a pointed face, quizzical eyes and mobile, lopped-over ears.

Gordon's, of course; rescued from the World Unity Complex disaster, and brought to the island for 'temporary safe keeping'. Right.

Scott had ended up baby-sitting the hyperactive little creature, even though he'd vowed not to. Over-developed sense of responsibility, no doubt. Not that there weren't rewards…

The little dog put two paws upon his shoulders, rearing high enough to lick his face, and Scott began to wonder how Cindy felt about pets. She had a plant… _'Frank', 'Phil', 'Frondy'_ or some-such… but he had no idea what her stance was on more animate companions.

Hell, for that matter, he was starting to wonder about Cindy, herself. Other than a brief phone message from Houston (she'd quit her job, again) and a second from her father's new nursing home in San Diego, she'd been out of touch for almost a week.

Might have been just a female thing. Didn't they have to run off and 'find themselves', periodically?

Maybe, Scott decided, after chewing on the matter for a bit, he ought to buy a few issues of _Cosmopolitan_ in Papeete, and do some research. A woman in his old squadron had once suggested _Cosmo_ as the ultimate field guide to the double-X chromosome set. Couldn't hurt to try, he supposed…

Tahiti announced itself through comm chatter, and a long, back-end wave shadow. From above, you could see a tear-drop shaped smooth patch in the waters 'behind' the big island, and a misty halo of clouds. Even without instruments, he'd have known there was something there. Not that anyone flew that way, these days, not really; but tricks like those could save your life in a shot-up, dead-stick plane.

Tahiti Center took over about eighty miles out, guiding him through a rapid slalom course of turns and descents. They handed him over to Temae Approach, like something extremely hot they were trying to juggle to the ground without dropping.

Thirty miles out, Scott called in for landing clearance, smiling at the familiar, accented tones of the Faa'a air traffic controller.

"TAF, this is Lear Foxtrot Alpha Bravo 1-2-1, coming in 30 miles northwest, at 18,000 feet. Requesting clearance to land runway 1-8."

The response was a swift and cheerful,

_"Lear Foxtrot Alpha Bravo, this is TAF. Tune squawk to 5-6-7-0, and reduce altitude to 10,000 feet. Turn left on heading 1-8-0. You are cleared for landing. Come on in, and welcome to Tahiti."_

Scott's smile broadened, despite all the worry. Whether it was a fighter jet, the Lear, or Thunderbird 1, flying felt good. He couldn't imagine life without wings.

"Roger that, TAF, and thank you. Reducing altitude to 10,000 feet. Coming about left on heading 1-8-0."

Further guidance followed. He banked the Lear, barely seeing the distorted, window-shaped patches of light that slid across the cockpit, over instruments, pilot and dog. _Dog…!_

As Scott lowered flaps and landing gear, losing speed and altitude with familiar, stomach-grabbing suddenness, he muttered,

"Scout, get in your house."

The terrier yipped once, and then dove into his strapped-down pet carrier. The little fellow was extremely intelligent, for a dog, and already well accustomed to landing and takeoff procedures.

Scott closed and latched the carrier's wire gate with one hand, adding,

"Sorry, Pal. No unsecured passengers allowed on approach."

The dog responded with a brief, high-pitched bark, pushing his pointed nose as far between the bars as he could, to see and to sniff.

Scott lined her up with the runway, throttling further back. On his instruments, and in his mind, the plane slid along the beacon like a flashing silver bead on a wire of glimmering data. Better still, he had a good head wind to fly into, giving him just the right amount of pillow-y air resistance. Three in the green… landing gear down… twenty-five percent flaps…

The Lear's twin jet engines deepened their pitch, while her small flap and rudder motors hummed along. Wind poured past, playing counterpoint. Surrounded by the sort of music he understood, Scott whistled a scrap of something, and came in on short final. The ground… velvety-green mountains, blue corduroy ocean, toy city and long, sleek runway… grew vastly bigger as it swept past. The closer you got, the faster it seemed to move. His heart rate increased, as well. This was joy, something he could liken only to being with Cindy, on a different sort of 'short final'.

Under Scott's expert touch, the Lear flared up, nose lifting, tail assembly dropping. The rear wheels touched, with a noise like a bank-robber's escape car peeling away from the curb. They bounced once, barely, then settled into a fast roll. Next the nose dropped, smooth as 100 year-old whiskey.

Nose wheel down… and just like that, he was taxiing; buildings and palm trees shooting past, gradually slowing to their accustomed stillness and dignity. Mission accomplished.

Scott crossed the 'hold short' line and turned off the main runway, tugging out his flight log.

"Clear of main runway," he announced, unnecessarily. Faa'a had a tower, and could perfectly well observe his 'driving'.

_"Clear of main runway, Foxtrot Alpha Bravo. Use taxiway November, and enjoy your stay, Sir."_

Scott double-clicked the mike by way of response, still smiling. To the dog, he boasted,

"Pretty good, huh?"

The terrier yipped excitedly, licking his hand and pawing at the bars as Scott opened the carrier door.

"Yup. Best co-pilot I've ever flown with. Looks like Alan's out of a job."

After he'd filled out the log, and post-flighted, putting the Lear to bed in a private hangar, Scott and the dog hurried across the tarmac to the Airport Mail centre. The sun was nothing more than a scarlet arc painted across the western horizon. Scott glanced, but did not linger, his mind already on other business. Mail… the airport newsstand for a few magazines, then home. He had simulator time to log, in a craft that hadn't even been built, yet.

The dog trotted along at the end of its leash, sniffing appreciatively at all the new smells, head cocked and ears lifted, stubby tail going like a frantic little metronome. That was, what…? Four/ four time? Virgil could have said for sure, but it was definitely more _'Entertainer'_ than _'Wedding March'._

To the sounds of lively celebration, engine-roar and claws clicking across concrete, Scott now added his cell phone ring; the Air Force March. Switching the leash reel to his left hand, he fumbled out his phone, flipping it open and hitting _receive._

"Scott Tracy," he announced, bracing himself.

It was Cindy, looking tired and cranky. She'd apparently flopped onto an armchair, calling him from a pitifully bare hotel room.

"Hey, Hollywood."

The fact that she still called him that, and that no one else really understood _why_, made the word especially warming.

"Hey, yourself, Beautiful."

"Yeah. Right," the former WNN news reporter snorted rudely. Her expression softened a little, though. "Long flight plus no makeup equals something less than glamour, Fella."

When in trouble, fall back on humor, his wingman had said…

"I look _that _bad?" Scott protested, feigning shock at his own make-up-less state. Then, growing more serious, "How's your dad like the new place?"

Cindy looked down, plucking at a non-existent thread on her gold USC sweat shirt. Shrugging, she said,

"Well, you know. It's not like… Bart doesn't really…"

Scott could have kicked himself.

"Sorry, Hon. Dumb question."

Cindy Taylor's father was suffering through the final stages of senile dementia. He recognized no one, and spoke now only to the shadows in his own head.

Very few things could make Cindy cry. Her adoptive father's slow deterioration was one of those few. Across the tiny screen, far away and out of reach, silent tears escaped dark, reddened eyes. Scott felt like a complete and utter heel.

"Come home, Cin," he ordered. "You've done what you needed to. I'll fly over, if you want."

But she shook her head, short black ponytail whipping the sides of her neck.

"They need you there, and I've got plenty of frequent flier miles saved up." Then, "You sure it wouldn't be a bother? You guys are busy, and I can always…"

_Do what?_ With no job, no home and no family capable of acknowledging her existence, what, exactly, was Cindy planning to do? Scott cut her off.

"You can come home. _Pronto._ First plane out, Hon. I'll be waiting to pick you up in Honolulu."

She gave him a wet, weary, grateful smile.

"Thanks. Guess you kinda love me, huh?"

He'd stopped walking, and the dog had by now wrapped its leash cord around his legs about fifteen times.

"Yeah. Guess I kind of do. Call with the flight number and time, and I'll be waiting at the gate. Promise."

She nodded, even smiling a little.

"Deal. I'll get you the details as soon as there's anything to report."

The conversation lingered a bit longer. From warm, tropical night on his end, to cold, lonely hotel room on hers; mere words having to stand in for the comfort Scott wished he was there to provide. Their goodbyes were short, and filled with promises. They hadn't set a date yet, but in everyway that mattered, Scott Tracy and Cindy Taylor were already joined.

'_Maybe_,' he thought, as the little screen went dark, '_I ought to go ahead and buy a ring. Surprise her.'_

Full of plans, Scott snapped his phone shut and put it away again, at the same time disentangling himself from the eager terrier. The little animal scampered around as they resumed walking toward the mail centre, sniffing everything, and adding a few scents of its own. Scott should have been annoyed, probably, but instead found all this doggish behavior rather enjoyable.

The Tracys hadn't had a true family dog since Rusty, a female Irish Setter; their friend, playmate and guardian… but that was before. There'd been Harry, a scruffy mutt, but he hadn't lasted long. Scout was an entirely different breed, and much more kinetic than Rusty had been. Still a dog, though, and the pilot was surprised by how good it felt to be barked for and welcomed by even a _pint-sized_ canine.

At the colorfully painted Air Mail Centre, he scooped the little dog up to tuck it beneath one arm. Didn't see a sign reading, '_No Pets', _but it couldn't hurt to be careful. Glass doors whooshed open, emitting a burst of cool, perfumed air and fluorescent light.

"Evenin', Sir!" The night manager, a big, dark-skinned woman, greeted him warmly, looking up from her surf magazine. "The Tracy mail?"

She leant upon a short, chromed counter, behind a wall of imbedded Plexiglas, smiling and waggling her fingers at the dog. The terrier licked every part of Scott he could reach, in his frenzy to greet a new person.

"Yeah… thanks…_urf…_ Martha. Quit that! Settle down!"

Martha Machado chuckled, mouthing, _'cute dog'_ as she eased off her stool and walked back to the storage area, pushing her way through a curtain of heavy, clear-plastic strips. Scout calmed down for a bit, but returned to full-throttle frenzy when Martha reappeared, mail in hand.

"Not very much _this_ time, Sir," the woman mourned, pressing a button on her side of the counter that caused a ghostly, LCD keyboard to appear between them on the glass wall.

"As far as I'm concerned, no news is good news, Martha," Scott quipped, punching in his mail access security code. This way, he never had to show any ID, or have his chip swiped. In fact, he wasn't sure that Martha even knew his name. All that mattered was that he knew the code, and came by often enough to be a familiar sight. Personnel changes had to be OK'd by Jeff Tracy, himself. Otherwise, Scott was the expected courier.

His code was accepted with a brief, musical chime. Then the virtual keypad vanished, leaving behind featureless Plexiglas that now warmed itself enough to destroy his fingerprints.

The mail was sent through a locking, two-door bin. Three letters, a cardboard mailing tube, and a thick manila envelope. Scott set the dog down, collected his mail and gave Martha a last, friendly smile. Then, he left the building. He sorted the post a bit more thoroughly, outside. The letters were for dad, and two of them actually looked important. The mailing tube was addressed to Virgil, from far-off Wyoming.

The twins were studying to be teachers, one of art, the other, Spanish. Every once in awhile, they sent his younger brother things they'd found, or made. Little touches of 'back home'. Scott was a wise enough man to keep his mouth shut about _that _situation (mostly), though what Virgil intended to do (besides switch religions) was beyond him…

As John had once put it,

"Better you than me."

_Speaking of which…_

The manila envelope was addressed to Scott, as the coded, 'Scott Aaron'. The postmark was American, via Florida's Space Coast.

He tore it open and shook the contents out onto the palm of one hand. A note, and a set of old-style, metal car keys. Right; the Charger. Scott had almost forgotten John's earlier request, and his own promise.

For just an instant, when the keys jangled onto his hand, Scott had felt a stab of dread, as though the arrival of personal effects this important was the worst of omens. But, Scott Tracy wasn't a fanciful man, or a superstitious one, either. He put the thought firmly away, then glanced at the note.

John was ambidextrous, and Scott knew both of his brother's handwritings quite well. This one was neat, small, and full of backward-leaning flourishes. Left hand, then; the one he used informally. That was something, at least. It said,

'_Take care of her for me.'_

_J.M.T._

Initials. From his own brother. Scott flipped the message over (it had been written on NASA stationary), but there was nothing else. Just the keys to a powerful old car, and a cold, empty note.

Sighing, Scott pocketed the keys, folded the paper into quarters, and tucked that away, too. Seeming to sense his dampened mood, the dog pawed at his trouser leg, and whined. He picked the little animal up again, and resumed walking.

"See," Scott said aloud, to the dog, himself and the breezy Tahitian night, "the thing about John is, everything's okay, until it isn't. And then it's really, _really _bad. He doesn't _have _a medium setting, that I've ever seen. Pain in the ass, actually."

The dog nuzzled him, proving once again that there was nothing like a cold nose when one was feeling a little down. Looking up at a star-filled sky (who the hell knew where Mars was?), Scott said,

"I'll keep an eye on her for you, little brother. Just stay out of trouble, up there."

…because it sure didn't seem as if the Thunderbirds would be able to help. Not unless Brains pulled off some kind of miracle.

_Madrid-_

Failing at his first call (to John), Gordon Tracy next tried getting through to Fermat. There, too, he came up flat. The younger boy must have been at his classes, yet, Gordon decided.

More than a bit vexed, he left a message, then flipped the phone shut, and put it away again. Anika gave his arm another gentle squeeze. All that mattered to her was his immediate safety, and that of her teammates.

Meanwhile, Bela Stepanovic wore a remarkably arch, _'Now what, Genius?' _look. He was Anika's coach; dark-haired and ugly, and so massive that he looked prehistoric. Bigger than Virgil, even.

They stood in the main lobby of the Santa Clara women's athletic dormitory, in near total darkness, but for a battery-powered torch. Outside, the sounds of dark-induced fear and chaos were growing louder.

This sudden power failure seemed to have panicked the Madrillenos, still reeling from the Unity Complex attack and its terrible aftermath.

Young gymnasts were being guided down by security guards, a few at a time. Bela shouted at those who remained above to sit still and wait for escort, but they were frightened, nevertheless.

Gordon found it difficult to stay out of things. He'd thought that by calling John or Fermat, he could help reinstate the city's power supply, but neither had proven reachable. Time for Plan B: lie like mad, and find a way past the Neanderthal. _(Didn't suppose that a shout of, 'Good Lord, what's that behind you!' had any chance of success…)_

Gordon was just about to attempt something truly mental, when the matter was taken out of his hands. From further inside the big building came a young English girl's shrill, terrified scream.

_"Fire! There's fire!"_

"Sharon!" Anika gasped, taking hold of Gordon's sleeve. Her Britishteammate was just nine years old.

In times of sudden emergency, you could often look at people's eyes and tell who was steady, and who would crack. Bela Stepanovic might have been carved of flint. Something passed between the young swimmer and burly coach, then. An understanding. Together with Anika and a female security guard, they ripped extinguishers off the wall, and pounded up the corridor.

Bela was a big man, with long, powerful strides, but he was heavily built, and Gordon Tracy much younger. The teenager soon outstripped Anika's coach, racing past the bouncing yellow torch beam, out where the darkness swallowed him whole.

_Mars-_

It was referred to afterwards as 'the picnic', as in:

"Hey, remember at the picnic, when John told that story about the grizzly bear, and Pete laughed so hard that coffee squirted out his nose…?" And then, "I miss him."

Cold and dust and flaring static, yes, but at least they were out of the wind, with plenty to eat and drink. When the storm finally ended, three days later, the supply cylinder had been fully organized and catalogued; edible and ruined stuffs sorted into separate areas.

The wind fell and the dust settled, leaving behind a landscape of low, exhausted hills, and a sullen orange sky. Now, the real work began. The out-of-doors-cursing-and-sweating-variety.

Roger Thorpe set about disinterring the tractor, while John started on the power suits, and the others began shifting supplies. They labored from many hours before dawn, to well after sunset, slotting in two meals a day and doing just about everything while still in their hard suits.

Evenings, they kept to the ship-board night schedule; four sleeping while one stood watch. It was during one such long, boring night watch that the messages came through. John had constructed a temporary comm station (bit like the one he'd set up on San Marco, but with far greater range). He hadn't tested it himself, though, programming the thing in powered-down mode. That which slept in his head was still a source of concern,and after a brief consult Pete had agreed that it would be best if John didn't access any equipment capable of reaching Earth.

He hadn't counted on urgent email addressed to him, however. Not with such a source and packet label. The screen blinked at him repeatedly, displaying something he'd never expected to see again.

_What the hell…?_

36? He hadn't been referred to that way in years. Not since the close shave at Princeton. That was Drew's nickname for him… like the handle _'Kryptoni3n'_, given when he couldn't come up with anything on his own. But, why would she…?

Amid the many cold-storage boxes in which John Tracy hid his feelings, something moved; breaking surface briefly, like a broaching dolphin. Knowing better, he opened the first message, anyway. It was chillingly brief.

_36: 911: A_

She needed help. Concerned, John shot back an encrypted reply, requesting further information. It would have been far smarter not to. He'd long since ensured that there were no _active _files on Anarchik, or the rest, but something might have been burnt onto disk, and there were humiliated corporate security agents out there with insanely long memories and deep grudges.

A few moments later, another message arrived, far sooner than Drew could have gotten his response. Again, John opened the message, though he should have known better. Turned out to be a repeat of the first, routed differently. Intercepted, maybe? Strange…

He'd coded his response on the fly, embedding its decryption system in the timing and pressure of his keystrokes; sort of an extra-dimensional subtext. Drew would know what to look for.

Twenty minutes later, he received an explanation, dense with hidden information. Someone had dug up her old handle, and Denice's; was using them launch exploits against WorldGov. Someone who evidently wanted to flush the 'group' out of hiding.

This, taken together with the Tahiti and Unity complex attacks, the sabotaged mission, and a few recent hacking attempts, began forming an ugly, shifting pattern in John's mind. Cowardly, hyena-like assaults… all of them somehow linked, he was sure of it.

_Damn, and double damn._ They were in danger, all of them; his family and comrades, from something that giggled in the shadows, waiting to lunge at an unprotected flank, or a limping straggler.

'_Okay,'_ John nodded to himself, _'time to go hunting.'_

Aware that they were probably being monitored, he altered his encryption schema, then sentthe girla plan of action.


	64. Chapter 64: Loop

_More or less... the end. Here it is, and thank you to Tikatu, Agent Five, Varda's Servant, Darkhelmet, Impekkable, Barb, Opal Girl and all the others who've penned a review or two. Your comments were always welcome. (A few changes have been made, for continuity's sake.)_

64

_Madrid-_

A fallen candle and a little girl, far from home and afraid of the dark. Gordon arrived in time to find a dorm room already wreathed in leaping flames, which had spread from bed to curtains to rug, trapping the young girl in a corner.

The fire made an ugly, ravening noise, especially when combined with screams. He'd already hit the alarm on his wrist comm, having bought himself a little time by running ahead in the dark.

The pin was out of the extinguisher. Aiming low, he compressed the trigger at the end of the hose, and fired. Cold, white powder jetted forth, creating for several moments a path. She was terrified, though, shrieking for her mother.

Gordon didn't think, he moved; lunging across the clear space, the roaring in his ears a combination of fire and pounding blood. Then there was the little one, all skinny, clutching arms and smoldering long hair. Her night shirt caught, just at the edge, but he slapped it out, and turned again.

A curtain of hungry brightness had sprung up. It was hard to see a way, but they had to go. He knew that.

More noises, more white powder, like the blessing of rain, of water. The hallway, into which strong small hands pulled him (Anika; and he thought, _'Brave lass')_ was cold and dark. Safe as the ocean.

Someone pounded upon him, but he had trouble letting go of the little one, who clung tightly, crying and coughing.

_Wharton-_

The messages were checked. One was grim, the other disturbing. Gordon had called first, about a power failure in Spain. He'd had a hunch that the outage was a computer problem, possibly an attack, and he turned out to be right. It was an ugly, devastating hack, devised by one 'Anarchik', and a few of his or her cronies.

The power grid had been altered, routing energy completely past Madrid, to Barcelona and Salamanca, which experienced massive transformer explosions as a result. Spain was having a very bad year.

In the high-vaulted, wood beamed chapel, beneath windows of ancient, colored glass, Fermat Hackenbacker did his best to help out. He risked a lifetime's worth of demerits using his PDA during the service, trying to get the various spaghettied programs sorted out and running again.

Sam and Daniel sang extra loud, seated on either side of him on the hard wooden pew. Eager fellow conspirators, they spread their dusty hymnals to cover his activity whenever a proctor shuffled past. The fact that Daniel Solomon was theoretically Jewish, and Sam Nakamura more or less agnostic, ought to have raised some questions, but they sang _'Shall We Gather At the River'_ like a pair of angels, so nobody minded.

Fermat wrapped things up in the middle of the Reverend Alworthy's thundering sermon, having an extra reason to shout a fervent _'Amen!'_ when power was restored to benighted Madrid. He turned in the handles of the guilty hackers ('DNC' and 'Kryptoni3n', as well as this 'Anarchik'). It was with tremendous satisfaction that young Fermat let the FBI know exactly who to go after for all the damage and chaos.

Then the second message. Very short, and hard to explain, it would haunt him for quite some time. The screen had flashed, revealing a staticky, dark image. Looked like John, except that… Fermat _knew _that something was different, and couldn't figure out why the change refused to come into focus.

Even as he struggled, under cover of _The Seven Deadly Sins_, to resolve a dangerous blackout, the boy considered John's cryptic message. He must have been speaking over a patched-together line, because Fermat hadn't recognized the number. And again, there was something; a flaw, or change that… but the notion refused to be grasped, wriggling away like something slimy-strong and terribly quick.

John had leaned rather close to the screen, his blond hair falling forward, his voice a frozen whisper.

"Fermat, I called to… (_burst of static_)…not there, so… (_unintelligible_)…anyway." He'd shrugged. "Some… (_white noise)_ …time, maybe."

Then, he ended the call. Nor could Fermat reach him afterward, though he tried through dinner and dessert, then Pride, Lust and Anger. Nothing. For many reasons, it was important that they find and reprogram Five, who perhaps held the key to all this.

After chapel, in their dim little corner of the maze-like steam tunnels, the three boys huddled around Daniel's chromed laptop. He'd opened it up, arranging the slim computer on a rusted pipe brace, so that they could view the screen at the optimal angle. Flushing a little, trying very hard to keep the pride from his voice, Daniel slipped in a disk, and hit the 'run' key.

"Okay," he began. "Just remember that it's a work in progress. I mean, it's done, yeah… but if you have any suggestions, I'll consider adjusting the parameters. Up to a point. Now, the visuals are a little primitive, but the rendering process will take care of that, and I'm going to shut the volume off and narrate the action, myself."

It was an open question how anyone so visibly bursting with pride could manage to feign humility, like that. Pudgy, smiling Daniel looked exactly like a new father. All he needed to complete the image was a handful of cigars.

Sam appeared slightly skeptical, but then, he always did. And Fermat…? He was still concerned about the messages, and unable to get _'The Battle Hymn of the Republic'_ out of his head.

Giving away his evening snack of apple juice and cinnamon crackers, he linked his PDA to the laptop. That way, the scenario could be tidied and rendered in real time, in preparation for uplink.

"Right," Daniel said, as the first images appeared on the screen. "It starts with a frame grab of _Endurance_, which I rotated 180 degrees and placed against a standard space backdrop. Cut to the interior… and then you find out through flashbacks that the mission commander is working for the Defense Department, black ops sector, and that he's allowed the government to use _Endurance_, the whole Mars mission, to test a new, long-range teleportation device. The plan is for the ship to get to Mars… okay, right here there's this kind of long montage of crew interaction scenes. Just to, you know, set up the characters and tension. He loves _her_, she doesn't love _him_, and these two have a major grudge match going…"

Narrow face illuminated by the screen's bluish, flickering gleam, Sam smiled.

"I don't believe it," he whispered to Fermat, beneath the ongoing monologue. "It's the _loooove _boat!"

Fermat rolled his eyes, digging a sharp elbow into his friend's ribs.

"Sh- shut up… 'M- Mister Movie Critic'. E- everyone thinks… their b- baby is… adorable."

Daniel heard the whispering and paused the scene, his expression one of martyred dignity.

_"As _I was saying," he began again, nobly, "they get to Mars, there's some dramatic stuff on re-entry… blah, blah, blah… Okay. Here we go. McCord waits until the whole world is watching, then triggers the teleportation device. It's all a big government plot, see? Because there's this huge celebration scheduled in Times Square, to honor the first manned Mars shot. There's a teleport station under the speakers' podium… there it is… nice Photoshop manipulation, no? Did you spot us in the crowd? We're in pretty nearly every scene. Like 'Where's Waldo?' "

Daniel had indeed done a good job, digitally altering a shot of New York City's most famous street scene. To the giant electronic billboards and jagged skyline, he'd added dignitaries, cheering crowds, and several beaming NASA types. It certainly _looked _real. The question was, would it fool Five?

"Right, so… one station of the teleporter is on Mars, brought there by _Endurance_, and the other's in New York. The defense contractors expect to cause a huge stir by…"

"I thought you said it was the Defense _Department,"_ Sam protested, leaning a little further forward. "Seems like the last thing they'd want to do is put a secret ops project on public display, like that."

Greasy water, dripping from an old pipe, splished and plinked onto the laptop. Daniel wiped it hurriedly away, saying,

"Work with me, here, Sam-_urai!_ The details are flexible, at this point. Anyway, it gets better. Let me fast forward a little… there! This is where you find out that the Hood has learned about the teleporter, and that he's decided to break things up. A lot."

Hands in his pockets, rocking back and forth on his heels, Daniel continued,

"He hires himself a hacker… you like the jacking-ports on his temple? It's my Uncle Preston, only without the zits, and with a cooler wardrobe. Can't wait till he sees this!"

Another smile and a wry addendum:

"I kind of raided my family portrait file for all sorts of people. The CIA chief is my neighbor, Rabbi Cohen. I was nice to him, though. I gave him what he's always dreamed of: hair."

"O- okay…" Fermat interjected, chuckling, "s- so far we've… got groping astronauts… a covert/public… weapons t- test, and a hairy Rabbi. W- when do things… s- start to happen?"

A large, grey rat scurried past them, pattering through a chain of grimy puddles. Daniel threw a crumpled cookie wrapper at the rodent, which then oozed back into the shadows, all stench and squeak and pestilence.

"They happen _soon_, trust me. The hacker retrieves schematics for the teleport stations, and figures out a way to override transmission. The Hood builds a station of his own, to intercept and capture the unwary astronauts, to use them as hostages. You with me so far?"

Fermat's head was reeling, but he nodded.

"G- go…on."

"So, the big day arrives, when the crew is supposed to make their first live transmission from Mars… (Yeah, it is a nice background. I downloaded it from the archives)… And then McCord triggers the teleporter, which is right under the American flag. _I dunno! He snuck out and put it there while everybody else was busy! Stop asking dumb questions!_ So, he triggers it, only something goes wrong. There's this huge flash of light, and the crew and ship are scattered through time and space, appearing randomly, like, _everywhere_. Except for John. The Hood catches him, at his secret headquarters in a volcano."

Daniel was building up steam now, and fast forwarding like mad. Images of world-wide disaster and snarling villainy double-timed it across the flat screen, almost funny.

"…and the burned-up husk of _Endurance _materializes in Times Square, half in and half out of a skyscraper. Storms erupt, tidal waves strike, people turn up missing, or get transferred through time, prehistoric beasts get shifted around, and it ends with the Hood… I used an old Ben Kingsley screen shot, 'cause I couldn't find any good footage of the real thing… holding John Tracy at gunpoint, demanding 300 million dollars to fix things up, and spare the last astronaut. McCord winds up dying heroically, to save the day."

Cheeks pink, forehead slightly damp, Daniel concluded by spreading his arms and gusting out,

"Think _that _will get your missing computer's attention?"

Sam replied before Fermat could work out what he wanted to say.

"Well, it owes a lot to _'The Philadelphia Experiment'_, and there are some major logic flaws, but… the main thing is, it seems wildly improbable, Daniel."

Young Solomon frowned, then pulled up his laptop's calculator function and began punching in numbers. Suddenly uneasy, Fermat asked him,

"D- Daniel, wait. What… are you… d- doing?"

"The math, Fermion; just the math. Hold on a sec…"

"I don't… think th- that's such a… good idea, Daniel."

Something his father had told him, something about an odd notion of John's…

"If you… figure th- the odds, you m- might… collapse the wave… function, and… and make a really unlikely… out- outcome, the _only _possibility."

But Daniel, deep in the figures, hadn't heard a thing.

"Hah!" he crowed, pointing out the calculator function's result, "10 to the 37th power to 1, against. How 'bout them odds! It could happen!"

Sam threw his older friend a deeply pitying look.

"Sure, Dan. After the universe recycles about fifty times. And, you'd need a monster power source to transmit that much matter, that far, and keep it together."

Fermat looked at Sam, the scenario's reflected end scene playing itself out against the glass of his spectacles.

"How _much _power?" He enquired, a little hoarsely.

"Oh…" Sam shrugged, numbers tumbling like autumn leaves through his far-seeing mind, "on the order of a second Big Bang."

"Or… a b- baby… universe?" the other boy prodded, growing ever more anxious.

"Sure, I guess. But who has one of those in their pocket?"

Right. Deeply upset, Fermat jerked at the cord linking his PDA to Daniel's laptop. His PDA started to fall. The boy gasped and threw a hand out to catch the thing, which had cost several thousand dollars and held all of his transcribed class notes. Grabbing for the valuable little computer, he accidentally hit the send key.

"No…" he breathed. "Stop! C- come on, _stop! Daniel…_turn yours off! W- we're not… ready! Th- there's no containment unit!"

Daniel moved, but not quickly enough. It was out there, rendered photo-realistic by his own computer, and translated into steel code, which she would be certain to open and run.

_A coded script… a calculated probability… an accessible power source… an extremely fast, intelligent computer… All it would take, now, to turn possibility into fact, would be for someone to give her authorization._

Fermat pulled out his phone, and began frantically dialing his father.

_Tracy Island- 20 minutes prior to the accident:_

Virgil was at the desk, in his father's big office. Scott was due back from the mail run to Tahiti at any moment. He'd called in once, already, alerting the island to expect inbound traffic.

They'd joked around a little, Virgil sensing his brother's unease, and doing his quiet best to jolly Scott into a better humor. Yeah, things were a little rough, just then, but Virgil Tracy firmly believed that everything would turn out all right in the end; that hard work and good intentions were weapons with which to vanquish fate.

Then, an alert came through. Two of them, actually. Power had been _completely _shut off to Madrid, Spain. Local crews were on it, and the situation didn't qualify as a true IR emergency, but Virgil placed them all on stand-by, nevertheless. People sometimes panicked during blackouts. Fires got set, crashes happened, and it was best to be prepared.

Next, Gordon's portrait comm flashed. Nothing else, though. No image or words. Just a swift alert, a "Hey, how's it going? Got a situation over here in Madrid," sort of thing.

Virgil stood up, pressing the all-call button that would summon his father and Alan. Brains was down in one of the labs, still trying his damndest to create an interstellar spaceship drive. Virgil doubted whether the engineer would even hear the alert, as focused as he often got.

By the time people began to arrive and the Learjet touched down, Virgil had more, and weirder, news.

"Dad," the big young man said to Jeff Tracy, his brown eyes filled with disbelief, "I just got some kind of blackmail threat from a guy that says he's trapped below Washington, D.C. He says he knows who John is, and that he'll start talking if we don't pay him a couple of million, _and _rescue his sorry butt. Something's up with Gordon, too, and, uh… the lights are out in Madrid."

Jeff blinked. He'd come racing out of the den, nearly trampling Kyrano in the process, and was slightly out of breath. He'd been at the island for several months, now, but was far from tanned or relaxed.

_"What?_ Blackmail? Again?"

Now TinTin, Alan, Gennine, Kyrano and grandmother joined them, just in time to hear the explanation. What there was of it. Scott was slower coming up.

Hitting the desk comm, Jeff called up his eldest son.

"Scott," he snapped, as the dark-haired young man's face appeared on screen. "Get Brains up here. He's in one of the labs, with the comm shielding up. Use an emergency access code, if you have to, but…"

"Yes, Sir. One engineer, coming right up. I needed to talk to him, anyway. C'mon, Mutt."

No one was prepared, when, with a noise like shifting realities, the world itself bent in half.

_Mars, Endurance- watch change:_

Linda Bennett hadroused him, giving John's arm the slightest of shakes. He rolled from his bunk with poorly concealed alertness, having slept not at all. Too busy planning a trap.

They'd made it back to the ship by this time. The supplies had already been stowed, and a little digging done. The power suits weren't in prime condition, or the tractor, either, but they were functional. Time for a genuine tune-up, and refurbishment of the battered probes, soon enough. Now, though, he had other business to attend to.

After his wash-up, John bade the doctor a very distracted good night, and then went forward. He was taking a tremendous risk, and he knew it, but too much hung in the balance for him to simply keep low and out of sight. As long as his 'hitchhiker' stayed out of things…

Up front, in the creaky, already dust-grimed flight deck, John sat down in the pilot's seat, and booted up the main computer, a two-setting fossil barely deserving of the name.

Swallowing some aspirin he'd brought along to settle a tension headache, John pushed past the operating system and began negotiations with the computer's dim little compiler. Then, the rear hatch opened. John did not immediately turn around, figuring that Bennett had simply forgotten something.

It was the silence, the lack of either excuse or explanation, that got his attention. He looked back and up, lifting a hand to brush away hair that badly wanted cutting. Recognition hit, and he stopped breathing for a moment. What stood there was Doctor Bennett's body, but what looked out through her brown eyes was not Linda.

Slowly, John stood up. As she walked forward, brushing a slim hand against bulkhead and instrument panels, hatches locked, cameras turned off, and the computer shut down. Maybe he should have been more concerned, but at the time, all that mattered was that she'd survived. That, somehow, Five had found a way to hide, and then to come back.

She proceeded along the narrow aisle between seats, stopping less than a foot before him. She didn't breathe or move as Linda Bennett did. Instead, there was something tauter, more athletic about her walk and stance. Curiously, she reminded him of someone, but he was too torn by cross-cutting emotions to pursue the notion.

She looked up at him, barefoot and tousle-haired, clad in the simple shorts and tank top that the doctor had put on to sleep in. And then she said, nearly without inflection,

"Why?"

For he was, of course, her creator, and the creator is never wrong.

"Because… I thought I had to. To stop that thing from reaching Earth. I didn't…"

With an effort, John mastered himself. He'd never been good at dealing with strong emotion.

"The last thing I intended was to harm you."

Her response was swift in coming, though not entirely rational. She had looked upon him through sensors and glass lenses. Detected the vibrations he produced using microphones of diverse sorts. Never before, though, through the organics of an analog female.

"It would have served your stated purpose better to have allowed the hostile program to complete its function, John Tracy. Interference has led to infection. This possibility was known to you."

He nodded. What was there to say? He'd acted as he had because he couldn't allow her to face Hackenbacker's nightmare alone. Because…

"We've been working together since I first wrote a program. Deep inside your 'body', on Thunderbird 5, was the motherboard of my first computer. Yes, the possibility was known, and acceptable. Put it another way, Five. You were worth it."

John Tracy had accepted needless risk on her behalf. He had become infected, to the point that complete reformatting, by her or the alien intelligence, was virtually inevitable.

And then, because lenses, microphones and sensors were inadequate, and always had been, she raised an arm of the body she'd hacked, and drew the fingers across John Tracy's face. Desiring to learn what such things 'felt like', she touched him. His flesh was warm, with a slight roughness, where his hurried 'shave' had missed some of the facial hair.

Interface of a sort was possible in these forms, though there was risk. Another pace forward placed her in direct contact with him. There were protocols to be followed; certain gestures and forms of contact, like the three-way handshake initiating communication between units in cyberspace. This much, she'd learned, and could apply.

Then came an upload, a program written in her own coding language. Nor was this all, or most hazardous. Disallowing time to do more than open the program, a sudden, violent shockwave tore away from Earth, propogating through space at the speed of light. The reality-smashing fold expanded, a ring of pure energy that destroyed everything it encountered. A ring flashing inexorably toward Mars, and John Tracy. Probabilities tumbled through the filters in all of her various locations. Seeking, she found available commands. An escape scenario.

"John Tracy, authorization required."

"What…?" he demanded, not understanding her query.

"John Tracy, _immediate authorization required."_

Her voice had taken on a definite edge, for she could see what had happened. What was coming.

_Kuiper _lay derelict, sheared in half by the hurtling wave. Next the Deep Space Observatory, blown apart by unstoppable, pitiless energies.

"John Tracy…"

He said, perhaps sensing at last the descending axe,

_"Grant..."_

And it all went dark.


	65. Epilogue

_By way of adding a little clarity, while things get sorted out... and re-edited, just because._

_Epilogue: Trenton, NJ Underground, Level 5-_

He'd stared at the images projected over DNC's pirate telecomm line, seeing the blackened ruin of a spaceship, still sparking slightly, and dangerously toxic. _Endurance_ hung suspended over Times Square. One engine nacelle had fallen onto the street below, crushing a city bus. The other lay within the Tower, along with the rest of the ship. Civil Defense had half the borough cordoned off.

And the astronauts…? There were conflicting reports, multiple sightings, but nothing was yet confirmed. No one had made an official announcement yet. Not WorldGov or NASA, and certainly not International Rescue. That would come later.

But he'd monitored events obsessively, glad along with everyone else when Thunderbird 3, at the torn-fingernails edge of her range, was able to pull a few survivors from _Kuiper_. The Sea Base rescue was another close one; Thunderbird 4, with help from WASP and the US Navy, saving hundreds of people from certain death when the main dome collapsed.

Denice had taken him in, fortunately, for he had no where else to go. Not like this. She lived in a tiny room behind her shop, where she 'fixed' what you brought her, erasing watermarks and ID codes, no questions asked. She wasn't pretty, and she preferred to have her name pronounced like the masculine 'Dennis', rather than the more female 'Denise'. She had frizzy hair, and tan skin with dark brown freckles, and she was a good friend. Very patient.

Walking in from the front room, a day or two after his sudden appearance, shepulled his chair away from the computer deskand said,

"You ought to call them. Let them know you're alive, at least. They gotta be in hell, right now."

But he shook his head, merely taking the logic boards and disks she handed him.

"How come?" Denice persisted, putting a hand on his arm.

By way of response, he set down the supplies, then adjusted his clothing somewhat, to reveal the smooth skin at his right side.

"See the appendectomy scar?" he asked her.

She peered, then shook her head.

"No."

"Neither do I."

"Okay," growing exasperated, now, "so what? You healed up. What's that got to do with the price of…"

"Don't you f-ng get it?" he demanded, low and savage, pulling away from her hand. "John Tracy… _their _John Tracy… is dead. His body was destroyed, to get rid of an infection. The only way. Destroy the hardware, and start over." He lifted his arms from his sides a little bit, nearly brushing the walls of the cluttered living space, then let them drop again.

"This body's nice. I have no complaints, really, besides the fact that it's _young…_" Nineteen or so, he'd reckoned, making him younger now, than Virgil. "… but it isn't _mine._ It was moved here, from another reality, it's data wiped and replaced. Somewhere, some other time line is missing this guy. Wonder if they even realize it, or if even the memory of his existence has been erased."

He stared at the worn, mismatched carpet squares on the floor. Then, face like stone, voice quiet, added,

"I'm dead. Twice over. She did what made sense to her… it's not her fault… but I can't go back to them, claiming to be John Tracy. Not ever."

_D.C., the bunker:_

Someone finally came for him, but it wasn't International Rescue. It was, instead, a tall, muscular man, hairless, before whom locks flew open and computer monitors exploded. Shr3ddr could not have withstood his assault at the best of times, and certainly not now, at the red-black edge of collapse. He wanted information...


End file.
